


War of the Animum

by dracoqueen22



Category: Original Work
Genre: BDSM themes, Bondage, Character Death, M/F romance, M/M Smut, Multi, Violence, War Themes, dark themes, dom/sub themes, epic fantasy, m/m romance, pain play, part of a broader universe, possibly m/f smut, potentially religious themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-03-29 16:37:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 48
Words: 231,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3903310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of interconnected novellas. Lieve is in peril. Demons and monsters sweep the land. The gods are fighting once again, descending from Elysium to take mortal hosts.</p><p>A group of strangers find themselves thrust into the position of savior, attached to arrogant immortals, with no choice but to help destroy the threat. Sleet, a simple thief living what he thought was a simple life, is forced to join the band of heroes in a desperate bid to save the world.</p><p>For his survival, for everyone's survival, no one has any choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Darkness Descends - Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Darkness Descends (Five Parts): When Frost contacts Sleet to team up for a lucrative mark, it seems like any typical day until a simple sphere shatters Sleet's world and everything in it.
> 
> I would also like to clarify that while Sleet and Frost's relationship contains strong elements of BDSM aspects, it should not be considered a healthy relationship.

The raucous laughter of the drunk and the ignorant filled Tawnry's small-town bar. It was an average evening, the same as many others, warm and sticky with the summer heat. If not for the flowing alcohol, fights would have probably been popping up in every direction. It was the kind of evening when clothes clung to sweaty bodies and insects buzzed about annoying men to no end. The air was so thick with humidity one could almost drown. Not even the slowly setting sun could lessen the intense heat. Orange shadows streaked with crimson cast strange echoes of color on the faces of the many people as they scattered about. Night would be falling soon.  
  
For Sleet Underwood, it was the best kind of day to work. People were too aggravated with the heat and blustering about how tired they were to pay any attention to him relieving them of their money pouches or other such trivialities.  
  
Sleet was a thief, and a damned good one at that. He worked his way through the crowd of people, still a good many despite the waning daylight, hand deftly sliding in and out of pockets, untying strings on pouches and slipping his earnings into his pocket. Gold coins, silver coins, round jewels, cut gems, little baubles and shining trinkets, he did not discriminate.  
  
No one noticed him melding easily into the crowd, keeping to the shadowy recesses at the corner of his mark's eye. He had been cursed with the figure of a woman, short, barely coming up to the shoulders of his older brothers and very lithe, no matter how much he ate. Even his face was feminine, curves too delicate, and eyes a gem-like amethyst that many women would kill for. He kept his thick brown hair cropped relatively close to his head but it did not help much. He received appreciative looks from many a man, and pretended outrage, but on the inside his groin tightened at each lusty leer.  
  
But that was a truth he would always keep to himself. Bad enough that he looked like a woman, but to yearn for men as well? Not that homosexuality was unheard of in the land, or even in Tawnry, but it wasn’t entirely accepted either. One had to be strong of hand or quick of wit to survive such a stigma and Sleet was neither. Nor did he want to be more of an oddity than he already was, so he kept his rendezvous a secret, and made certain to have more than a few friends at Lady Crisan’s, the local and most famous of madameries in this part of the land.  
  
All those thoughts aside, the day was waning and in the fading hours of approaching dusk, he was earning his daily bread. His eyes spied what would be his last mark for the day, a pompously dressed, overweight man sidling past him.  
  
Sleet smirked, moving into the man’s wake and easily relieving him of a hefty sack of money. The rich fool never knew any difference. Sleet weighed the pouch in his hand, not bothering to look back. He hadn’t been caught in a long time, nor did he have the intention to do so that evening. Any old hand knew that to look back was begging for trouble and Sleet himself preferred to stay far away from any such occurrences.  
  
The pouch was heavy and the distinct clang of coins rattled noisily inside. It was enough that he could probably eat and sleep comfortably for the rest of the week. And bathe as well, thankfully in the town’s bathing houses rather than a bucket of cold water drawn from the common well and tossed over his head in the early mornings. That thought made him grin.  
  
Resisting the urge to whistle, Sleet scanned the crowd again, out of habit more than an actual attempt to find more victims for the night. He steered himself toward the nearest inn, a favorite called the Whistling Ale. It served great stew, thick and hearty just the way he liked it. And the grog, though substandard, was of a price that he could afford and it burned on the way down, making inebriation a definite course. Sleet’s eyes trailed over those milling about in the streets, landing on a most familiar face as if by fate.  
  
A lucky day this had turned out to be.  
  
Sleet pushed his way through the crowd, heading toward the man leaning against the side of a building, arms folded over his chest. Frost was a fellow thief and one of the few who actually knew his true sexuality. Frost was attractive, with his thick black hair and brooding brown eyes, but he tended to be far more serious than Sleet himself. Not that it mattered; they were not what others would call ‘together.’  
  
Frost looked like he was concentrating, completely focused on whatever had captured his eye. Probably a mark. Though Sleet didn't think he'd mind a lusty distraction.  
  
Sleet made no effort to hide his approach and Frost noticed him immediately, acknowledging his presence with a silent, raised brow. Sleet grinned cheekily, slipping into the alley and choosing a spot on the other side of Frost, mimicking the other thief's stance. The alley stank of rotten piss and dog excrement but it was shadowed and not many people peeked into the creeping darkness. The perfect hiding place for plotting thieves.  
  
Sleet searched the crowd, trying to spot Frost's mark. There, standing before an upscale tavern, one that served only to noble born and rich men, was a thin sneering man with his, assumingly, waifish wife. His curling grey mustache sat perkily on his face, nearly ramrod straight like the rest of his demeanor. The man was gesturing with tight restraint, face flushing as he argued with the guard at the door. Yet there seemed to be nothing about this particular noble, if he was one, that was special for someone of Frost's caliber.  
  
Frost prided himself on being picky when it came to his victims. He liked the thrill of the challenge, the allure of what was most precious, most invaluable. Rare and unusual was Frost’s game, and there were few thieves as quick with their fingers or as stealthy in their movements as Frost. He was a well-known name but a little-known face. After all, a thief with a face, is a thief in a cage.  
  
Sleet turned toward Frost, a question on his lips when suddenly the older thief turned, pinning Sleet against the side of the building and sealing their lips together in a voracious kiss. A whoreish moan escaped Sleet's mouth at the dominating motion, one hand moving on its own accord to grip black hair tightly, the strands of hair slipping through his black leather gloves. Frost continued to kiss him, trapping Sleet between his body and the dirty brick as he nudged a knee between Sleet's legs, rubbing his thigh against an awakening arousal. Teeth scraped across Sleet’s lips with the faint metallic taste of blood.  
  
Fire flooded through Sleet's veins as Frost claimed his mouth, tongue swiping along the inside of the warm cavity and quickly forcing Sleet to submit. Hands pressed against his shoulders, fingers curling and pressing into his skin.  
  
Sleet moaned thickly, always more than a little aroused by Frost's dominance. He found his pleasure in being the bottom, more so than being the top, something about being on the receiving end of mindless rapture sending his body into throes of ecstasy. Frost's tongue made one more swipe against his mouth, a teasing bite on his bottom lip before he pulled back, turning his head to the side to continue watching his mark, gaze locked and intent.  
  
“Miss me much?” Sleet joked in quiet tones. Suddenly, he sucked in a breath, releasing it on a restrained whimper. Frost had surreptitiously rubbed him with his thigh, stimulating his already hardened cock. He arched into the touch, biting his lip to hold back a groan.  
  
Brown eyes narrowed for just a moment before Frost returned his attention to Sleet, a smirk at the edge of his lips. “I did not expect to run into you today,” he said with a husky edge to his voice. “But now I see how fortunate I am.” He punctuated each word with a lazy rub to the throbbing erection that was now demanding attention between Sleet's legs.  
  
“Damn tease,” Sleet muttered. He tilted head in the direction of his friend's mark as he dragged his fingers through Frost's hair. “Who's that?”  
  
Frost leaned in, locking eyes with Sleet and putting their lips so near that they nearly shared the same breath. “A venture I am hoping you will join,” he answered, snaking his tongue out to capture another heated kiss, pressing their bodies together. Sleet could feel Frost's hardened cock straining against the ties of his leather jerkin.  
  
“O--Oh?” Sleet said shakily as Frost pulled away. His veins were beginning to burn with arousal and he wanted Frost to push him to the ground and fuck him into the pavement, never mind those that were just beyond his sight outside the alley.  
  
Frost nodded, putting a more respectable and noticeably safe distance between them. “That is, if you're willing to hear me out, Sleet. I could use your expertise.“  
  
Sleet chuckled, reaching down to adjust himself. “After leaving me like this, you expect me to actually listen to you?”  
  
“I expect you to come begging for more and then listen to my offer,” Frost replied, shrugging as he again glanced out of the alley. One of his gloved hands picked at pretend lint on his tunic.  
  
It was a strange relationship the two had. One couldn’t call it a friendship, but it wasn’t really a rivalry either, nor a mere tolerance.  
  
“Tell me about this mark,” Sleet demanded. “He doesn't seem your usual standards.”  
  
Frost shook his head, turning his dark gaze back to him. “Not here. Meet me at that rat nest where you make your bed.”  
  
He frowned, crossing his arms. “It's not a rat nest. Besides, it's not like you're living in the lap of luxury either.”  
  
Frost smirked, something glittering behind his brown eyes. “After this, I could own twenty towns like Tawnry and more.” He peeked out of the alley again before shifting toward the street, waving a hand of dismissal. “I'm stopping by the Hole but then I’ll be there,” he tossed over his shoulder.  
  
Sleet sighed and leaned against the brick as he considered Frost's proposal. If Frost were to be believed, then Sleet really could get himself a better home and perhaps eat well for months. The money would eventually run out as always, but it would be a good start.  
  
What mark had Frost selected to promise such a return though? And, knowing Frost, just how difficult was this going to be? Frost was never satisfied with easy treasure.  
  
Sleet peered out of the alley, found that no one was paying a bit of attention to the shadows, and melded back into the crowded walkway. It was time to head home. All thoughts of stew and grog had been chased away by Frost. Sleet's growing hunger was now of a different sort and he'd rather take care of that at home, thank you very much.  
  
The sun had nearly made its final descent beneath the horizon, casting Tawnry in a blanket of shadows and misconception. He could see torches flickering to life around him as families and shop owners prepared for the coming darkness, yet his mind turned to other thoughts, his body shivering in anticipation. Although the prospect of riches excited him... so did the idea of being with Frost again. It had been some time since he had last seen Frost and he desperately needed satiation. He had been to Lady Crisan's, but those visits were a front. He never asked for anything more than a bit of cock sucking and he never left satisfied.  
  
Frost, however, could inspire much lust and desire in Sleet, enough to make his cock fill in his pants at the mere remembrance of their encounters. Heat spread across his skin, adding onto the humid, sticky air around him and he surreptitiously adjusted himself within his trousers, looking up only seconds before he nearly collided with a tall, well-muscled man, hair almost the same exact color as Frost's. For a moment, he locked eyes with the stranger as his hand moved of its own accord, delving into the passerby's pocket and wrapping around some smooth, and most likely shiny trinket.  
  
Their bodies bumped and collided, Sleet bouncing off the large shoulder before they had completely passed and the man was nothing more than a memory to the thief. He didn't look over his shoulder at the stranger, but he couldn't deny the vague shiver of familiarity that had raced down his spine. With a frown, Sleet continued toward his 'rathole' of a home on the outskirts of Tawnry.  
  
Once a fair distance from the stranger, Sleet pulled out the trinket he had snatched. An enigmatic eye of molten silver haunted him as he stared at the small charm, not even anything of real value. It was simple, made of polished copper and fit neatly in the palm of his hand. It was shaped vaguely like the chakram that the now extinct ninjas were known to use, with a tiny inscription in a language unknown to the thief winding about the wide circular base in a flowery script.  
  
Sleet considered tossing it into a gutter, but something held him back, some sort of strange feeling that if he did, he would be making a big mistake. It was a gut sensation, much like his intuition, and he clung to that. A thief did not live long if he ignored his intuition. He pocketed the trinket once more.  
  
Better to be safe than sorry.  
  
The sun had dipped completely beneath the horizon by the time he made it home. Usoff and Yaris had not returned yet: this was evident by the darkness surrounding the squat and pitiful domicile they shared. The home, sandwiched between two larger but equally decrepit buildings, was one story high with a tattered roof and holes in the walls. It was made of wood, but as with the nature of all things old and subject to war, it had crumbled in the wake of the passing armies. Now the three thieves lived in the small space, it serving as the perfect hide out for them. His friends, Usoff and Yaris, he had known for quite some time, but they still did not know his secret. Both men believed him to be straight, and he preferred to keep it that way.  
  
With any luck, and knowing them well, neither would return for several hours more, choosing to thieve during the dead of night or preying on drunk customers at bars and inns while Sleet preferred a nimble dart through the hot, distracted crowds of shoppers during the day. He didn't want his roommates inadvertently stumbling in on he and Frost... at times they could be quite loud. In this neighborhood, no one bothered to complain.  
  
With a quick and cautious glance over his shoulder, casually scanning the streets and the darkened windows around him, Sleet was satisfied that he had not been followed. Not that he expected it, but it never hurt to be wary. The life of a thief often meant sleeping with one eye open and one ear always listening. His hand slipped into his left pocket, then past the inner lining that was invisible except for those looking for it, and wrapped around the small and beaten, nearly rusted key contained within, as if assuring himself of its presence.  
  
He always made a show of locking and unlocking the door, though a mere wind would sometimes blow the piece of shit open. The key was really to the hidden lockbox underneath the twelfth floorboard within the seldom used dining room. Not even Usoff and Yaris knew where it was located. This box contained all of Sleet's money, he knowing far better than to carry it on him. It wasn't impossible for a thief to be thieved... he had learned that lesson all too well long ago. There was no honor among thieves, and as such, he knew to never trust them.  
  
Frost was something unexplainable. Usoff, Yaris... they were his friends, his compatriots, but he didn't trust them. Frost was aware of his true sexuality, but knew nothing of his family or his past. His roommates had been informed of his hometown, but not his family or his sexuality. There was no one who understood all of Sleet, and he preferred to keep it that way. 'Come too close to the fire and the fly gets burned'... an old, if not effective adage that had served him well.  
  
Sleet frowned. He had never realized just how many little quotes of prose he lived by. From the adages to the thief rules, his life was ruled by words.  
  
He slipped quietly into the dining room and pulled up his lockbox, depositing his day's earnings before concealing it again. The trinket he kept in one of the smaller pouches tied at his waist. He didn't have a reason for doing so, unless he counted on his intuition once more. Satisfied that his valuables were safe, Sleet crept away from the dining room, nimbly avoiding furniture in the pitch black darkness.  
  
As he pushed open the door to his room, however, his senses prickled and he got the annoying feeling that he was being watched. He could see nothing in the dark, and his first reaction was to light the lantern that stood on a table just inside the doorway.  
  
The flickering orange light quickly filled the room, illuminating most of the corners and chasing away the dark shadows. All but one. Because making himself comfortable on Sleet's bed was Frost.  
  
How on Corynth had he gotten here so quickly?  
  
“I thought you were going to the Hole?” Sleet demanded, glaring at the man occupying his bed.  
  
Frost cracked open one eye, a slow smirk curving his lips. “I lied.”  
  
Sleet sniffed, slipping the thigh sheath from his leg and piling it atop other odds and ends on the table nearest the door. Off came the belt of pouches, another dagger and sheath and leather boots, thumping lowly as they hit the wooden floor and disappearing somewhere amid the piles of junk that Sleet had accumulated throughout the past few months. He didn't care to be particularly tidy, having far better things to do than organize and clean.  
  
“I see the Wonder Idiots are still carousing in the taverns,” Frost said, the bed squeaking beneath him as he sat up, swinging his legs over the side. A small yawn escaped him as he ran a hand through his hair, mussing up the long strands as they were pulled from the thin leather strap that kept them pulled back from his face.  
  
“A small blessing,” Sleet responded dryly as he crossed his arms over his chest and turned to stare at his friend. “Who's the mark you wanted to recruit me for?”  
  
Frost eyed him, dark brown eyes both alluring and seductive, as he rose to his feet. “Later,” he replied, edging closer to Sleet... no, not edging, prowling toward him like a fierce tiger, a carnivore on the hunt. He advanced on the younger thief, a gleam in his eye.  
  
Sleet stood his ground as his breathing rate heightened from the predatory gaze. He made no effort to hide the leisurely rake of his eyes across the physique of his occasional fuck friend. Frost was well defined, the lean build of someone not requiring a lot of muscle mass, but still in shape, toned and fit. His clothes clung well to his body, not too tight, but with enough looseness for easy of moment: dark blue tunic, sienna trousers held up with a braided leather belt and tucked into supple leather boots.  
  
Frost smirked as he invaded Sleet's personal space, forcing him against the wall as Frost trapped Sleet between two outstretched arms pressed firmly to the plaster. Sleet could feel the heat radiating off the man as he inched closer, eyes never losing that rapacious gleam. Seconds later, it was a repeat of the alley, Frost rubbing his body along the smaller thief's as he ravaged Sleet's mouth with his tongue, swiping the wet muscle ruthlessly across and through lips.  
  
The top of his thigh ground against Sleet's groin and Sleet grabbed Frost's hair with both hands, preventing Frost from getting away as he returned the kiss with equal fervor. His lips, teeth, and tongue worked together, trying to drive the desire between them into a frenzy, heat filling the small space.  
  
One of Frost's hands left the wall, grabbing Sleet's shoulder before sliding down the other man's body, groping along the way until he had grabbed the curve of his ass. Frost kneaded the soft flesh with his fingers, before slipping the digits below the waistband to glide across the heated skin. Sleet arched up against the older man, desperately seeking more friction.  
  
Frost moaned into the kiss before releasing Sleet's mouth, wetly trailing his lips and teeth across the younger male's jaw and heading straight for the hollow beneath his ear. He breathed hotly on Sleet's ear,and his free hand crept between their bodies, grabbing the edge of Sleet's tunic and pushing it up. Hot fingers splayed across Sleet's firm abdomen.  
  
One hand remained tangled in Frost's hair as Sleet's other pushed between their bodies and pulled at the strings of Frost's trousers. Deft thief fingers made short work of them and soon he was attempting to push them off Frost's hips despite the tangling of their limbs, Frost also trying to remove Sleet's shirt while he nipped and sucked at the side of Sleet's neck.  
  
“Against the wall?” Sleet groaned huskily, managing to push them far enough down to release the straining flesh within, already dripping with the evidence of his desire. Sleet’s mouth watered and visions of him kneeling and wrapping his lips around Frost’s cock flooded his mind.  
  
“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Frost said, grazing his canines over Sleet's neck before grabbing at Sleet's tunic and pulling it over his head. Dark eyes raked intensely over Sleet as Frost ground his hips against Sleet's, running the heels of his hands down the sides of Sleet's chest and abdomen, eliciting more pleased shivers.  
  
Sleet was no less busy. He grabbed Frost's cock with one hand, stroking him firmly while tugging at the other thief's shirt, struggling to pull it over Frost's head. They paused in their movements so that Frost could remove his tunic before their lips crashed together again, hungry and heated. The edge of Frost's dominance only muddled Sleet's brain, made him surrender in a wash of desperate heat.  
  
That was how it was between them, a little bit of dominance and submission that Slet liked all too well. A taste of pain and desperation that always left him begging for more.  
  
Frost's hands slid down his body until they were at his breeches, deftly undoing the strings and pushing them down his hips. Sleet never bothered with undergarments and so his rigid cock popped free when his breeches slid to the ground. He kicked them to the side as Frost's mouth ravaged Sleet's with fervor, as though determined to taste every inch of him.  
  
He rolled his hips sinuously against Sleet's, their straining arousals brushing together and igniting sparks of pleasure that shot through their bodies, short-circuiting everything except the desire to feel and reach their peak. Nothing else pierced their lust fogged brains but the sound of heavy panting and the beating of their eager hearts. Sleet ran his hands down the planes of Frost's chest, tangling briefly in the brushing of darkened curly hairs that decorated him. One courageous hand found its way to Frost's nipple, the dark flattened disc just begging to be caressed.  
  
Frost growled deep in his throat at the seductive touch, one hand diving deep into the pockets of the breeches that now sat low on his thighs as the other grabbed Sleet's hair, pulling his head back so that he could ravage the exposed throat. Sleet panted, rubbing a thumb over the weeping slit of Frost's arousal.  
  
He grazed his teeth over Sleet's neck and throat, managing to pull up a small, dark red mark and making his lover moan out loud. Their groins brushed together again, Frost pressing insistently at Sleet, desiring more than just the flittering touches. He finally found the object he was looking for, pulling the slim and tiny bottle from his pocket with success. A flip of his thumb and the vial opened, clear and oily liquid tipping out onto Sleet's flattened abdomen.  
  
The oil dripped down his body but Frost paid no attention to that. He tossed the bottle to the floor and released Sleet's hair, sliding both hands around the younger man's body to grip his buttocks. He lifted Sleet, encouraging him to wrap his legs around Frost's waist and rest most of his weight on the wall behind him.  
  
It was crumbling and cold against Sleet’s bare skin but he ignored it, concentrating instead on the scorching heat emanating from his cold-named lover. Frost leaned forward, one hand gripping Sleet's hip and guiding their cocks to grind together, an erotic friction developing into an almost unbearable heat.  
  
He swiped two fingers through the oil that dribbled down Sleet's body, reaching between their already sweat-slickened forms, for that hidden entrance. One oiled finger swirled around the puckered muscle, before it slipped inside, warm, tight muscles clenching on the digit almost immediately. Sleet gasped and clutched at Frost's shoulder with one hand, squeezing with his fingers digging into the thickly corded muscle as his head fell back against the wall, the older thief quickly moving up to absorb the unintentional sound with his mouth.  
  
The two fingers pushed in and out of the stretched muscle before curling in and searching for that one spot. Sleet gasped the moment Frost struck gold. He rocked down on Frost's fingers, desperate for more stimulation, his weeping cock leaving streaks of precome on Frost's abdomen. His back arched, head falling back against the wall, leaving Frost to trail bruising nips along his jaw, dipping down to bite at his collarbone.  
  
“Damnit,” Sleet cursed in a voice raw with lust. “Just fuck me already, Frost!” The last came out sounding dangerously close to a plead and Sleet clamped down on the words, inwardly cursing himself for sounding too needy.  
  
Frost raised a brow, his patience far stronger than Sleet’s. “I think it is you who missed me.”  
  
He withdrew his fingers from Sleet, swiping his entire palm over the dribbling oil and slickening it over his own straining flesh. He manipulated Sleet's body to his own whims, until Sleet was poised over his shaft, the cockhead pressed teasingly to the ring of stretched muscle.  
  
Sleet scowled, eyes flashing with impatience. “I'm not going to beg.”  
  
“A pity,” Frost murmured. “Because I love to hear it when you do.” And with that, he pushed swiftly upward, thrusting deeply.  
  
Sleet hissed, his head falling backwards against the wall as both pleasure and pain shot up his spine in a wash of tingling heat. His back arched forward, neglected arousal brushing against Frost's washboard stomach. His breath came in short gasps, but Frost did not move, waiting patiently for Sleet to adjust.  
  
In the end, it was Sleet's own patience that snapped. He clenched down, drawing a groan from Frost's lips.  
  
“You should have just asked, Sleet,” Frost said with a wicked smirk as he snapped his hips back and thrust forward, quick and deep.  
  
Sleet moaned, his fingers curling as Frost's cock brushed across his prostate, sending a rush of flame through his body that filled him to his core. His mouth fell open to release a steady stream of pants as he thrust himself downward, meeting Frost move for move.  
  
Frost wasted no time in changing the pace, increasing it until he was thrusting up steadily into Sleet, driving into him so hard that he was pushed back against the wall with each pump of his hips. His face buried in the curve of Sleet's neck, breathing hotly over his skin and absorbing the pain of Sleet's blunt fingernails digging into his flesh. His canines grazed over lightly tanned flesh, leaving behind garish red marks.  
  
Sleet slipped his hand between their bodies, gripping his own aching shaft and giving his cock a much-needed squeeze. He gasped, fist moving up and down, squeezing out precome with each stroke.  
  
He was already so close, on the verge with every forceful thrust and slide. Frost groaned loudly again and decided to muffle the sound, wrapping his lips and tongue on Sleet's collarbone and sliding his mouth across the younger thief's flesh, an erotic dance of teeth and heat that had Sleet arching off the wall. Frost's hold on Sleet's hips was bruising, but he relentlessly pushed forward, feeling himself near, the fire in the pit of his stomach burning and flaring brighter and brighter as all his muscles curled and tensed.  
  
Sleet was the first to come, seed spurting between their bodies and spraying their flesh in thick ribbons. He gasped and strained, wringing every last drop from his sated body as Frost quickly followed him over, managing one or two more thrusts before the gripping of Sleet's inner muscles pulled him across the edge.  
  
Frost's knees buckled, causing him to slump to the ground, taking Sleet with him as he did so. They crumbled in a tangled heap on the floor, Sleet reclined against the wall.  
  
Frost struggled to catch his breath, slowly extricating his grip from Sleet's waist. As the younger man sat back, Frost's limp organ removed itself from his body. With a smirk, Frost swiped a finger through the come on his chest and stomach, directing it toward his own mouth and lazily sucking off the sticky remains. Sleet watched him, chest still heaving.  
  
“I do believe you've made a mess on me,” Frost said huskily. “I think you'd better clean up after yourself.” His eyes darkened with lust, turning nearly black.  
  
Sleet frowned and glared, almost shaking his head, were it not for the commanding tone that sent shivers up his spine. Always... it was always like this between them. And it very nearly ended the same way as well, every time. He obliged after another heated glare, dropping his gaze to center on Frost's well-muscled abdomen, swiping his tongue across the sticky flesh.  
  
Sleet moved his mouth downward, mouthing Frost's semi-hard length, licking away all traces of their coupling there as well.  
  
“I ought to mark you,” Frost said. “So that no one else can touch my toy.”  
  
Sleet growled against Frost's flesh. “I don't belong to anyone,” he retorted. “And neither am I your toy.“  
  
Frost shook his head. “That is where you are wrong. You can't help that you're afraid of what you are Sleet... my pretty little bottom boy.” The last came out as a murmur, dangerously close to sounding affectionate.  
  
Sleet's eyes narrowed, but Frost only chuckled, causing Sleet to flush with irritation and anger. He finished lapping up the rest of the come, and then bit the tender skin of Frost's stomach, a bare press of his teeth that didn't even draw blood.  
  
The response was instantaneous.  
  
Strong fingers gripped Sleet's hair, forcing his head back to meet Frost's dark stare. “I don't like to be bitten,” Frost snarled. “You know that, Sleet!”  
  
Sleet stared back, defiant. “And I don't like to be called pretty,” he snapped, reaching up to slap the hand out of his hair and drawing back from Frost. “We're even.”  
  
He turned away, reaching for his tunic and using it to wipe away at his own splattered skin, cleaning off the remaining evidence of their coupling.  
  
“So tell me about this mark,” Sleet said, dispelling the tension by shifting topics. If he didn't, then Frost the stubborn bastard wouldn't either, and they would spend the rest of the night staring at each other.  
  
Frost tucked his spent organ back into his breeches, tying the strings shut. “I've been following him for weeks,” he said curtly, still perturbed. “His name is Reynard Dye--”  
  
“The newly inaugurated tax collector,” Sleet inserted smoothly. He eyed Frost as he rose to his feet, pulling his own leggings back up. “It makes sense now.”  
  
Frost stood, tugging on his tunic. “And tomorrow is Wednesday.”  
  
“The first of the month,” Sleet murmured thoughtfully, not bothering to find another tunic. He was going to crash soon anyway.  
  
“Exactly. And by now, I know his schedule. The man is like a sundial; he never changes his routine. At the end of every day, it's to the same place for dinner with his wife. They have no children.”  
  
Frost backed toward the bed, plopping down upon it as if he owned the furniture. Then again, other than the table, it was the only piece in the room. There really was nowhere else to sit.  
  
Sleet shook his head, kicking his dirty tunic to the side as he bent to pick up Frost's discarded oil bottle, tossing it back to him. Frost easily caught it, tucking it back into his pocket for later use. Unlike Sleet, Frost didn't hide his sexuality. He didn't broadcast it to the world, but he certainly didn't pretend he was straight to appease his homophobic roommates or waste his money at Lady Crisan's, either. In that matter, Frost was indeed the braver of the two.  
  
“I'm still not sure where I fit in,” Sleet mused aloud. “It sounds like you've got it all figured out. Steal the tax money after he collects it, right?”  
  
Frost nodded. “Yes. He keeps it in a locked safe in his home. It is hidden, but no trouble for someone like you or I.“  
  
“Well then, what d'you need me for?” Sleet demanded, feeling a twinge annoyed.  
  
Frost made himself comfortable on the bed. “You can take this however you like, but it is a compliment,” he said. “The truth is, you are the smallest thief that I trust.“  
  
Frost was right; Sleet really didn't know how to take that. He bristled at being called 'small,' hating that just as much as people telling him he was 'pretty'. Then again, Frost had claimed that he trusted Sleet, which among thieves was a dangerous thing to admit. It in itself implied trust just to say.  
  
“What do you need me for?” Sleet asked, his emotions oscillating between annoyance and pride, finally settling on a warm pleasure.  
  
He had known from the beginning he would say yes. If Frost was involved, there was the likelihood it was a big payoff. He never quite knew what the older thief did with all his earnings, and why he still lived like a pauper, but never asked either.  
  
“I knew you'd see it my way,” Frost said smugly. “There's a service tunnel to his basement with easy access. But the door into the pantry is locked and bolted from the other side. There is, however, a dumbwaiter that connects the basement to the kitchen.”  
  
Sleet sighed. “Let me guess. You want me to climb the damn tunnel like some sort of monkey, and come around to unlock the door, the entire time slipping around guards and security.”  
  
Frost nodded. “Nothing more difficult than usual. I'm certain that it is something you can do and you know as well as I the type of payoff that can come with this.”  
  
Sleet did indeed; he practically salivated at the thought. Everyone was forced to pay their taxes on the first Wednesday of the month. Taxes for living, taxes for owning a home, or even renting, taxes for their occupation... if it could be taxed, the monarchy did. No one received any leeway, not even the higher officials could bribe their way out of it. Sleet supposed that it was meant to make the system fair, but the poor were the ones suffering. The taxes were high. Sleet was certain that if they could pull it off, he would probably not need to steal for quite some time...  
  
But before he could nod in response, Frost chose to sweeten the deal. “It will be over five million notes, to split down the middle.“  
  
Five million? Sleet nearly swooned. He leaned against the wall, regarding his thief companion with a look of surprise. Five million notes? It was more than he even knew what to do with.  
  
Frost shook his head, face stonily absent of emotion. “Somehow, I knew your response would be similar to that stunned look of childish glee.“  
  
“I'll do it.”  
  
“Good.” Frost rose to his feet, arms rising over his head in a languid stretch. “I'll be leaving now. The idiots should be returning soon and I'd hate for your precious reputation to be tarnished.”  
  
For a moment, Sleet almost believed that there was a hint of irritation in that statement. Had his refusing to acknowledge his sexuality angered Frost? No, impossible. They didn't have that sort of relationship.  
  
Sleet scowled as Frost moved his way, leaning in for another possessive kiss and erotic press of their bodies. “Perhaps tomorrow we can have a victory fuck, ne?”  
  
Sleet ignored him, despite what that husky tone did to his groin. “What would you have done if I hadn't seen you today?”  
  
“I would have found you, like always.” Frost shrugged. “After all, you never do stay away for long, so meet me at the Hole at sundown.” The noise of the front door rattling open echoed through the tiny home, making Frost raise a brow but continue. “Knowing Rye's schedule, it will be the perfect time. Until then, Sleet.”  
  
He slipped out the door, silent as a shadow.  
  
Sleet watched him depart, mind still reeling from the offer. Five million notes was too much for him to comprehend. He was also certain that Frost wasn't lying; it wasn't his style nor would it serve any purpose. Frost wasn't exactly an honest man, he was after all a purveyor of all things transportable, but between them there had always been something different.  
  
Sleet didn't trust thieves at all, but Frost had always been... unexplainable was probably the best word.  
  
There was a strange sort of trust, a companionship that Sleet couldn't explain. Frost was probably the closest thing he had to a friend; the life of a thief was in itself solitary. They knew nothing about each other, but still somehow managed to make it work. Honestly, Sleet had known Frost nearly as long as he had been a thief.  
  
Usoff and Yaris called out to him from the tiny kitchen and the sound of their cheer broke through his mental thoughts. The smell of some kind of meal struck Sleet full force and his stomach growled in appreciation.  
  
The brothers called to him again, causing Sleet to grab his last clean tunic before leaving his room, pulling the door shut behind him. If they were successful the next day, it wouldn't be long before he could be on his own.  
  


****


	2. Darkness Descends: Part Two

The first thing Sleet did when he woke the next day was leave for the bathing houses, to wash both his soiled clothing and his soiled body. He could feel the sticky remains of semen still clinging to him and it made him itchy.  
  
It was early yet, the sun peeking over the clouds and slowly warming the chilly morning. That never ceased to amaze Sleet, who was more accustomed to the mild and predictable weather of his hometown. Here, in Tawnry, it could be at once stifling hot and wet, or later during the day, breezy and cold. During the night, the temperature would linger mildly, or randomly drop to freezing. Thunderstorms scarcely lasted longer than twenty minutes and the last he heard, it hadn’t truly snowed in eleven years.   
  
His breath puffed against the cool air, small vaporous clouds rising before dissipating quickly. Sleet tried to act casual, but his noticeable limp defeated him. His ass was sore, a low throbbing deep in the base of his spine, not that he didn’t welcome the pain. It was a sign that at least something about the night had gone well.   
  
Sleet scanned the streets, finding that it was yet too early for the crowds to gather, nor were there enough people for him to idly thieve. He would wait until it was closer to noon.   
  
He made his way through Tawnry, heading directly for the early bathing houses, steam and smoke already issuing from the chimneys above them. It was the same rhythm he always followed, the same series of steps.   
  
Frankly, it was beginning to get boring. Early to bed and early to rise, he thieved at noon and dusk, when the weather was unbearable and the crowds thick and annoyed. He returned home to a sagging cot and two roommates that constantly bickered. And then the next day, he would get up and start all over again.   
  
Perhaps it was time to move on.   
  
Then again, considering Frost’s proposal, the change was going to happen sooner then he believed. Though, recalling the older thief’s offer, Sleet began to wonder why it all seemed so simple. The act of robbing the tax collector didn't seem difficult nor challenging, more a task of finding someone small enough and worth trusting than actual skill. The payoff was large sure enough, but not exotic, unlike Frost’s usual fare.   
  
It hadn't occurred to him to ask these questions the night before, likely because Frost had served as an excellent distraction. Still, he asked them now, even if they were directed at himself. What was Frost truly after? There had to be something more than just tax money in Rye’s safe; Frost was never interested in anything for simple coin.   
  
The cry of a small hawk flying overhead pulled Sleet from his internal musings. He looked up to find the agile bird swiftly crossing the orange-tinted morning sky before veering away, most likely off to catch its breakfast as it soared over the roof of the bathhouse and toward the surrounding woods. Tawnry, like most of the towns its size in Corynth, was ringed heavily by thick trees and brambled underbrush.   
  
Sleet shifted the position of the satchel on his shoulders, which contained his bathing supplies and dirtied clothing, and stepped into the large wooden structure that housed the baths. The foyer was empty of decoration, housing a simple desk attended by a bored clerk doodling on a parchment. The tow-headed boy was probably the son of the owner.   
  
“Ten coin fer laundry, thirty fer rinse and sixty fer the full bath,” the child recited without looking up from his scribbling.   
  
Sleet slipped one hand into his pocket, mentally configuring his earnings. Three silver pieces clanked onto the burnished wood of the desk, his fee for the bath.   
  
“Your name?”   
  
“Do you actually need one?” Sleet replied impatiently. He had a lot to do before meeting Frost tonight, including purchasing a new tunic and taking last night's earnings to an appraiser.   
  
The boy shrugged and plucked the coins from the counter, sliding them beneath the desk. “Then, Mr. Doe, step around to th’right. Leave yer clothes here with me.”   
  
Sleet nodded, slang his satchel around and withdrew the two dirty tunics, plopping them down on the counter. Dark eyes stared at him before the clerk jerked his head toward the door Sleet was to enter.   
  
He hoped that the bathing rooms would be empty. He wasn’t in the mood to be taunted and couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t snap at someone.   
  
In the next room, little more than a storage space for clothes and towels, Sleet stripped down, shoving his tattered outfit into a basket and onto a shelf before wrapping a thin towel around his waist. He frowned at the dark purple bruises on his hips and thighs. They would probably linger for the better part of a week. Frost had certainly not held back this time. Not like he ever did.  
  
Shaking his head, Sleet turned to the next doorway, covered by a thin curtain beyond which he could hear several voices. The room wasn't deserted, unfortunately, but at least the patrons weren't raucous. Small favor.   
  
Sleet sighed and pushed through the curtain, soapy and fragrant steam smacking him in the face. He blinked through the hot haze, spying a half dozen men scattered throughout the bathing room. There were at least fifteen tubs, arranged in three rows of five, and steam still rose from many of the large wooden vessels. At least Sleet wouldn't be forced to share with anyone. Last time, he'd nearly slit an old man's throat for wandering, unwelcome hands.   
  
He hadn't cared that the old fogey had only wanted to “make sure he wasn't a girl.”   
  
  
Scrubbing a hand through his short hair and deftly avoiding the gazes of the four other men who had no shame in staring at him, Sleet found the nearest empty tub and climbed in, pleased to find it was still early enough that the water was fresh. Not a single prior sud floated about. That was the second problem with public baths. They were _public_ , but still better than nothing.   
  
After a moment’s silence when he stared with such determination at the water that it surely would have boiled under his gaze, the conversation started up around him again and he could bathe in peace. For the moment. He eavesdropped as he scrubbed his body with his own soaps. He knew it would be about twenty minutes before they were finished with his clothing, so he had time to spare.   
  
“Didja hear ‘bout Humain? Heard it was attacked by demons,” commented one raspy older man directly behind Sleet.   
  
“Pah! Everyone knows them things doesn’t exist!” retorted another. “This world ain’t built on no magic.”   
  
A third, whiny and prepubescent, spoke up, his speech far more cultured than the others'. “Do not speak of things you do not understand, Clane. It makes you sound ignorant.”   
  
The second man, obviously Clane, snorted. “Don’t be gettin’ all high ‘n mighty on me, Dorchest. You ain’t believe in magic no more than me.”   
  
“Perhaps not. But you can't deny that Humain was destroyed,” Dorchest said smartly.  
  
Sleet turned, eying Dorchest. The man seemed refined and wealthy, so why he was in the public bathing houses and not in his own private and majestic dwelling was beyond Sleet. Most of the rich could afford the arduous task of digging deep beneath the ground to access the undersprings. This man, with his carefully clipped grey beard, surely did not seem like a peasant.   
  
“What d’you think, stranger?” The first man asked, his question directed at Sleet.   
  
He considered ignoring them, but being polite was more likely to garner him further information about the supposed attack on Humain.   
  
Sleet shifted in the tub so that he could keep an eye on each of the men, including a fourth who'd yet to speak. Sleet had an answer prepared, but before he could get the words out, one of the men cut him off.   
  
He half-turned from where he was sitting in the tub, regarding the three... no, make that four, one man had not spoken, men behind him. He opened his mouth to speak, but another voice quickly cut in.   
  
“Ya sure yer a guy?” Clane taunted, leaning against the edge of the tub. He tilted his head to the side. “Yer too pretty.”   
  
Sleet gritted his teeth, eyes angry and hard. “And you are too ugly for the general public,” he said in the politest voice he could muster, making it low and dangerous. “I am a man.”   
  
The fourth man, someone young and closer to Sleet’s own age, chortled loudly at this, throwing his head back. “Damn right,” he agreed, throwing a wink toward the thief. “I’ve been telling the smug bastard that for years.”   
  
“Shut up, Ker!” Clane snarled, face flushing. He glared at Sleet, eyes narrowing into thin slits. “Betcha them marks ain’t from some woman, is they?”   
  
It took all of his self-control not to slam a hand over the purplish-red bites on his neck and collarbone. Damn Frost for his biting tendencies!   
  
“I don’t see how that’s your business,” Sleet retorted icily with a look that would have made Frost proud.   
  
“Ah, come now,” Ker said, from a bath to Sleet's left. “There’s nothing wrong with a little indiscretion.” His tongue dragged slowly over his lips as he leaned against the edge of the tub, his elbows hooked over the margins.  
  
Sleet worked his jaw, half-turning away from the four men. “Not interested.”  
  
The first man, whose name Sleet had not yet uncovered, laughed loudly at this. “Now, lads. We all paid good coin for this, how ‘bout a little civility?” He gestured broadly, a large smile on his face.   
  
Sleet ignored him but the others gave their murmurs of approval as another man came in, responding immediately to Clane's greeting. The thief continued to wash himself in silence, eavesdropping on their conversation. He felt a gaze boring into his back but chose to ignore it. They would see that it didn’t pay to piss off a thief.   
  
“The taxes are due today,” Dorchest rambled, his whiny voice grating on Sleet's nerves. “It seems they have gone up since the last time.”   
  
Clane harrumphed. “Ya say thayt ever year, Dorchest. Like ya ain’t got the coin ta pay.”   
  
The words washed through Sleet's ears like the murmurings of a brook, noticed but subtly ignored as he lost himself in his own thoughts. After today, he was going to be a wealthy man, provided he and Frost could come through with the plan. He couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that there was more to this simple mark than his fellow thief had let on.  
  
Sleet frowned, barely noticing when the water of his bath rippled and splashed as someone eased into the tub beside him. He hadn’t been paying enough attention to hear the person’s approach. Blinking, Sleet looked up into Ker's hooded blue eyes.   
  
Sleet's frown deepened into a scowl.   
  
“Now, don’t be giving me that look,” Sleet's unwanted guest said, subtly edging closer. “You were looking a mite lonely.”   
  
Scrubbing the last remnants of oily soap bubbles from his shoulder, Sleet stared angrily at him. “Actually, I was just about to leave.”   
  
Ker lifted up a hand. “Are you runnin’ away then?” he asked. “It wouldn’t hurt you to spend a tick, would it?”   
  
Taking a deep breath to calm what was probably an irrational reaction, Sleet settled back into the water. “What do you want?”   
  
The other man grinned, slyly dropping his hand back to the warm bath and swirling it about, creating little bubbles from the soap. “It depends on what you have to offer me, my friend.”   
  
It was the same, always the same. Never mind the fact that he was gay, that was not the point. He didn’t want to be assumed for something just because of the way he looked. People already thought him weak and helpless for his size. If he weren’t easygoing by nature he would have already become a homicidal maniac.  
  
Sleet quickly rose, ignoring the odd looks he was being given as he swiped his towel from the ground and wrapped it around his waist. He’d had enough.   
  
He ignored Ker calling after him and ducked back into the changing room, blessedly empty of other patrons. Sleet dressed quickly, hoping that his laundry was done. He wanted to leave and leave quickly. He jerked his leggings over his hips, and a soft chime floated to his ears.   
  
Sleet blinked and looked down; the bauble he'd stolen from the stranger last night had slipped out of his pocket. It gleamed dully in the light streaming through dust-streaked windows.   
  
Sleet crouched and picked up the necklace, sliding it around his neck after only a moment's thought. It was cheap trinket, worth nothing to an appraiser, but something about the design called to him. He'd keep it for now.   
  
He finished tying the strings on his breeches and headed for the door, only to pause midstride. He'd almost forgotten about his revenge.   
  
Sleet grinned, mouth stretched wide like a Mabon pumpkin as he turned back to the other cubbyholes in the room. His ears craned for any sound of someone approaching before he dug into what he did best, thievery. Five minutes later, he was several hundred notes and a few extra baubles richer. It significantly lightened his spirits, making his irritation fade away. It was fair compensation after all. He whistled to himself as he exited into the main lobby, the same bored clerk still sitting behind the desk.   
  
“Laundry for Doe,” he said, sidling up to the desk to get the boy’s attention. Without even bothering to look, the attendant slipped a hand under the desk and brought out a small bundle of neatly washed and damp tunics.   
  
“Come back and see us agin’,” the child drawled as he returned to doodling on the same parchment. Sleet snuck a look and rolled his eyes. The boy would never make it as an artist. He would be better off working in the bathing houses.   
  
He grabbed his bundle and headed for the door, but not before two men entered, pushing it open as they chattered loudly. Sleet stepped to the side as he waited for them to pass.   
  
“Mayamar’s been attacked, too.”   
  
“Isn’t that in the Undalvian region? Shouldn’t the Lord be doing something?”   
  
“That pompous ass? At the first sign of trouble, he ran for his life.” There was a derisive snort.   
  
Sleet frowned as he slipped out the door, already heading for the appraiser. That was the second town he'd heard of that day. Was there a war going on that he hadn’t heard about? Undalvia was near Tawnry, too, just a week’s journey on horseback across the southern plains.  
  
Sleet doubted that demons had anything to do with the attacks, but what if there was some outside force invading the country, pretending to be demons? It would be bad for business.   
  
However, it honestly had very little to do with Sleet himself. He wasn’t a hero or a leader. He would leave the investigating up to the soldiers and guardsmen. He'd stick to the only thing he was fit for doing and ignore the rest.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
The Watering Hole certainly lived up to its name. Little more than a rundown dump on the far end of Tawnry, it was home to the most iniquitous of dealings. Despite the fact that the guard knew men of ill repute could be found there, they did not venture inside. It was a risk none of them would take, to enter a place where they would be so outnumbered death was an inevitability. So the thieves and the murderers and the rapists and hell knew what other depraved characters, all used it as a place of refuge. There they boasted and jibed, displayed their deeds as if they were fine trophies.   
  
At the Hole, food and grog were cheap but inferior, gristle taking up most of the meat and alcohol so watered down it was nearly tasteless, but one didn’t come to the Hole for meals. One came for the atmosphere, to commit shady dealings in the dark or to boast about your less than legal deeds without fear of retribution.   
  
Sleet didn’t come to the Watering Hole often. He wasn't one to brag about his pilfering, and he didn't care to make friends with the less distasteful members of society. Sleet was a thief, but he never killed or raped anyone. He didn't think there was a need to take anyone's life, and he didn't understand the lure of forcefully taking someone.   
  
There was also the matter of his appearance. Sleet wasn't intimidating no matter what front he put on, and he often presented a target. It was more trouble than it was worth, so Sleet kept his distance.   
  
Frost, however, frequented the Hole often. It was where he heard of most of his marks and probably where he got the information regarding Dye. Everyone recognized him, the “silent shadow.” Sleet hadn't thought Frost the type to boast, but since he rarely accepted Frost's offer to go to the Hole, he couldn't be sure what the other man did.   
  
It was just like Frost to demand that they meet in a place Sleet loathed.   
  
Sleet buried his distaste as he approached the squat building that was home to the Watering Hole. The front door sagged on two rusty hinges. The windows drooped and were covered by thick tanned hides. Small wisps of pale, yellow light emanated from cracks in both the wood of the building and the window covering. Truthfully, the Hole looked like it was going to collapse inward at any moment.   
  
Sleet sighed and slid a dagger into his hand. He couldn't hesitate to draw blood if he wanted to stay unbothered by the other patrons. They'd see his small stature and consider him a target within the blink of an eye. A ready blade often helped to win their respect at a moment’s notice.   
  
The sound of revelry and bawdy laughter floated to his ears, the dilapidated building unable to contain the noise as Sleet approached. The moment he pushed through the creaky door, Sleet was overcome with sweltering heat, the two roaring fires on opposite ends of the room doing much to make him sweat. Garog, the owner, used every trick in the book to make his patrons spend more money, including sweating them to damn near dehydration. Of course, the heat also served to make the foul smell that pervaded the Hole even more prominent.  
  
Swallowing down rising bile at the stench, Sleet waded into the crowd in search of Frost. It was a difficult task as many of the patrons were taller than him, and Frost was most likely to be found sitting at an obscure table, the bastard. Worse was that Garog only lit the Hole with the fires so the center of the building was shadowed and dark, as if Garog didn’t want to see the shady dealings.   
  
Laughter and harsh voices rose up around him, busty barmaids with their scanty clothing danced with men quickly getting more and more inebriated as they consumed bucketfuls of Garog's cheap brew. Sleet struggled to wade through the active crowd, colliding with a large woman who nearly knocked him down. He was forced to shove her drunken body away as he fought through the crowd, cursing Frost under every breath.   
  
Slipping between two men who were too intoxicated to notice his presence, Sleet caught sight of Frost sitting casually at a table in the corner. He was leaning back in a chair, one foot propped up on the table as he scraped at a block of wood with one of his daggers. Sleet scowled through his relief, fighting his way from the last of the mob and making his way to the isolated table. His frown deepened at the platter of unappetizing food sitting in front of Frost.   
  
“We just had to meet here,” Sleet grumbled, dropping down into a chair to Frost’s right, angling it so that he could still see the mob, and by proxy, anyone that might be approaching their table. Not that he expected anyone to have designs on either his or Frost's head, but it never paid to be careless around a mass of known murderers. Who knew? They might just kill him for sport.   
  
Bored brown eyes flickered toward him before Frost returned his attention to the carving in his hands, the soft sounds of the knife flicking over the wood lost in the overly loud atmosphere. “You’re too old to whine, Sleet.”   
  
Sleet scraped a hand over his hair as he settled back into the wobbly chair. “I wasn’t whining,” he argued, eyes dropping to the plate of ... well, he wasn’t sure what to call that shit sitting on the table. He pointed a dagger tip at it. “You actually eating that?”   
  
Frost stared at him, twirling his own dagger around his fingers and jamming the tip into the table as he tucked his recent carving away. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he retorted. “I wouldn’t feed that waste to a dog, much less a human being.” He shifted his gaze to the laughing crowd. “Dye should be at the usual spot sometime within the hour.”  
  
“Good.” Sleet inclined his head. “So tell me this: why Dye?”  
  
Frost raised a brow.   
  
“He’s not your usual standard,” Sleet elaborated. “And if it’s this simple, why hasn’t anyone else tried?” The last question had been bugging him as well. Slipping around a few guards and climbing a dumbwaiter shaft didn’t sound complicated and there were other skilled thieves out there who could have done it just as easily.  
  
Considering the payoff, it seemed sensible that any thief would strive to rob the tax collectors. They carried the most coin at one time, and tended to be lightly guarded. Sleet doubted that the security at Dye’s home was anything to worry about.   
  
So why was no one else trying?   
  
Frost sat up in his chair then, feet falling to the floor as he leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. Something strange flickered in his brown eyes, something that Sleet couldn’t quite interpret. It wasn’t an emotion, so much as an actual flicker, like the play of light over rippling water, or the flash of something in a mirror. It was strange, and slightly unnerving.   
  
“People have tried,” Frost informed him. “And have succeeded time and time again. But no one has ever been able to get away with the entire lot. It’s too much to carry.” He shrugged. “They usually take what they can carry, then disappear with the collector none the wiser.”   
  
Sleet furrowed his brow. “That doesn’t explain why you are going to follow the common crowd. If it's so simple, why do you need me?”   
  
Frost flicked an errant strand of hair from his eyes. “I need you because I am not small enough, Sleet. I already explained this. Dye’s new appointment has complicated things.”   
  
“Complicated?”   
  
“Dye is surprisingly more concerned about his safety than the others.” He paused, gaze moving to a nearby window, covered by the same tattered cloth as all the others, and the shadows of the sky beyond. “It’s time we left.”   
  
Frost was right, but Sleet wasn't happy about him deflecting the question. He was certain there was more to this, something Frost wasn't telling him.   
  
Sleet hated surprises.   
  
Nonetheless, he nodded and rose to his feet, Frost doing the same, retrieving his dagger from the table and shoving it back into a thigh sheath. Sleet let Frost lead the way as he was more effective at clearing a path than Sleet.   
  
He breathed a sigh of relief when they stepped into Tawnry's cooler evening air. Sleet swore that the stench of the Hole was clinging to him.   
  
Outside, the streets were filled with a normal traffic of people, milling about as they hurried to their homes and their families, or in other cases, to their favorite bar or tavern for an evening meal and socialization. Store owners were popping out of their businesses to light the many torches that illuminated the town.  
  
Sleet hadn’t expected his companion to strike up conversation, so the amiable silence between them wasn’t disconcerting. Sleet occupied himself with one of his favorite hobbies: people watching. People did the most fascinating things when they thought they weren’t being observed, and sometimes it was enlightening to simply sit back and study. Until Frost’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, accompanied with the disappearance of the weight of the necklace.   
  
Sleet looked up into curious brown eyes. Frost had picked up the cheap bauble and was turning it over and over in one gloved hand. One thumb rubbed over the middle of the chakram-shaped pendant.   
  
“This is a worthless piece of trash, Sleet,” Frost said as he let the links slide through his fingers to land back on Sleet’s chest with a solid thump. “Why do you bother wearing it?”   
  
Sleet shrugged. “I don’t know. I was going to throw it away but I changed my mind.”  
  
Frost snorted, whirling on his heel and picking up their pace once more. “You don’t even know what it means, do you?” he asked, throwing the question over his shoulder.   
  
“Nope. Should I?”   
  
Frost laughed, but it was humorless, more a mockery. “You know Sleet, once the whole world used to believe in gods. Now we just wallow in our own faithlessness.”   
  
“What does that have to do with the necklace?”   
  
“That thing could hardly be called a necklace. It belongs in a scrap pile. How much did Brions offer?” Brions was the auctioneer that Sleet took his “procured” goods to as Frost well knew. He wasn’t a particularly generous man, but Sleet trusted Brions to a certain extent and the man was crafty enough that he'd yet to be caught by the authorities.   
  
“I didn’t try to sell it,” Sleet said. “Now what does it mean?”   
  
Frost waved a hand of dismissal. “A long time ago they used to worship the god of shadows.”   
  
“They?”   
  
“The alibinos.”   
  
Sleet tilted his head to the side. “The who?” He picked up the necklace again, tracing the lines of the symbols with his eyes. It didn’t look very shadowy, or dark and dim; the metal was even bright and cheery.  
  
Frost half-turned, arching one dark eyebrow. “Do you know _nothing_ of the world?”  
  
“I know enough and I’ve never heard of any alibo-, alivi-, whatever the fuck you called them.”   
  
“They’re an extinct race that used to inhabit the western lands. Along with their wyvern brethren.”   
  
“That's not something everyone knows,” Sleet retorted. “How do you know so much anyway?”   
  
Frost shifted so that he was facing forward once more, though he never once broke stride. “I listen.”   
  
Sleet huffed. Frost could be downright irritating sometimes.  
  
Telling himself he wasn't sulking, Sleet dropped the topic and the conversation. He followed Frost, who seemed content to return to his earlier silence, and let his eyes wander through the thinning crowd.  
  
Something sparkled out of the corner of his eye and Sleet’s attention was immediately grabbed like a child spotting a piece of candy. Most thieves had keen sight for treasures and Sleet was no exception. His eyes swiveled to the right, latching onto a chain necklace with a jewel-encrusted emblem.   
  
Sleet altered his course, pausing just in front of the street vendor, his gaze locked on the necklace.   
  
He didn’t know what about it fascinated him. It wasn’t anything intricate, a dark onyx stone was set within burnished steel on a chain whose links were no bigger than his pinky nail. The symbol itself was plain, a twining arrangement of circular lines and swirls. Sleet felt as if he were being drawn in by the dark jewel and twisting lines of metal.   
  
“What are you looking at?”   
  
Sleet nearly leapt into the air at Frost’s unexpected deep voice purring directly into his ear. His heart beat madly in his chest. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”   
  
“Your senses aren’t that dull, Sleet.” His gaze flickered to the bauble that Sleet had been admiring. “Jewelry? Have you a sweetheart then?”   
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sleet snapped, turning away from the stall. “You know I don’t care for that sort of thing.”   
  
“That’s fortunate.” Frost easily fell back into step beside Sleet, his longer legs affecting a quicker stride. “I have never found it easy to share.”   
  
Sleet stared at the older man out of the corner of his eye. “Possessive much?” he asked rhetorically. “We’ve had this discussion before. Remember?”   
  
“Yes. And every time we’ve seen just how little you stand up to your assertions. Make no mistake, you are mine.”   
  
Sleet felt an aroused shudder trickle down his spine, accompanying the flush that spread across his cheeks. “You’ll miss me when I’m gone,” he challenged, a half-assed attempt at a tease when Frost had so effortlessly aroused him.  
  
“You would return. I’ve no doubt.”   
  
Sleet scoffed. “Yeah, right. Whatever.” He waved a hand of dismissal. “Let’s just get to Dye’s before your ego gets too large for your body and floats away.”   
  


o0o0o

  
  
Sleet peered out of the window of the abandoned shanty he and Frost had appropriated for the purpose of spying, careful not to be seen as he watched Dye’s house. The guards patrolling out front looked like brainless mercenaries, and there were only three of them. Which meant there were probably more inside. The house itself looked pretty standard.   
  
Three stories, made of a combination of wood and stone, with a garden in both the front and the back, the Dye household definitely belonged to someone of wealth. It was a far cry from the ramshackle shanty that Sleet shared with the brothers.  
  
“That is far too much space for just two people,” Frost said, suddenly appearing behind Sleet, his voice low and sensual in Sleet's ear.  
  
A warm body pressed against Sleet from behind as Frost wrapped his arm around Sleet, his tongue tracing a wet path around the curve of his ear. Frost pinned Sleet against the window, the hardness of Frost’s arousal pressing against the curve of Sleet's ass.  
  
Sleet shivered, his fingers curling on the windowsill as Frost’s hand trailed lazily down his body, across his flat stomach, only to rub the flat of his palm over Sleet’s groin.   
  
“There are more creative ways to pass the time,” Frost suggested, stroking him firmly with the heel of his hand.   
  
Sleet’s eyelids fluttered, unsure whether to push backward or forward into Frost’s touch. His skin tingled as erotic thoughts filtered into his mind, most brought about by the simple suggestion. Frost could arouse him at the drop of a hat, because inevitably, he always knew what turned Sleet on the most.   
  
Fingers brusquely rubbed against the front of his pants and Sleet moaned, head falling backward against Frost's shoulder. “We can't get distracted,” he breathed.   
  
Frost’s other hand gripped his chin and directed Sleet's head back toward the window. “Don’t look away,” he warned. “Otherwise we might lose our chance.” His nimble fingers ceased their stroking and untied the strings at the front of Sleet’s pants, loosening them before dipping quickly beneath the fabric to encircle Sleet's rapidly hardening cock.   
  
His own fingers curled against the windowsill in an attempt to remain upward as the skilled press of the older man’s tongue to his ear caused him to shudder once more. Teeth scraped the back of his neck, igniting a trail of fire that spread down his body. He moaned, the noise echoing in the abandoned emptiness of the shanty.   
  
Frost ground against Sleet’s ass, pushing his erection into the cleft of the other man’s buttocks. Sleet shivered and whimpered, his cock becoming rock hard in Frost’s grip. “Frost...” he cried, bucking his hips forward into Frost’s grip as his eyes slid closed of their own accord.   
  
They flew open just as quickly when sharp pain raked across face. Frost had slapped him. “I said not to look away,” he admonished huskily, rubbing his fingers over the stinging skin.   
  
The dominating tone of his voice was enough to make Sleet’s cock twitch in the other thief’s hold and he shuddered, forcing his gaze to remain out the window, no matter how difficult it was. His lust fell over him in cresting waves and his lips moved before his pride could convince them otherwise.  
  
“Do something,” he whimpered, thrusting his cock forward into the tunnel of Frost’s hand. “Fuck me!”   
  
Lips traced over his neck, tongue creating a hot line of fire before teeth bit down harshly on his collarbone, not enough to draw blood but the pain was sufficient to send more sparks of arousal straight through Sleet.   
  
“Oh, no. I have other plans.” Frost's fingers danced along the contours of Sleet’s cock as his other hand began to palm the younger thief’s buttocks, kneading and rolling the flesh.   
  
“But you-“  
  
Frost chuckled darkly, slipping one finger between Sleet’s skin and pants, pulling the fabric out and down to reveal the curve of a pale buttock. “I’ve trained you well if you think of my pleasure first.” Sleet held his breath in anticipation as the warm digit slid along the crease of his ass, one finger circling the rim of his entrance. “But I’ve a sudden desire to see you come undone.”   
  
His voice was husky and low, yet demanding all the same, Frost’s warm breath ghosting across the back of Sleet’s neck and causing the hairs there to rise in expectancy. His entire body tingled as he pushed backward against the tempting finger, it doing nothing more than tracing circles and taunting him with its presence.   
  
“Dammit, Frost. Stop teasing.”   
  
The fingers withdrew and Sleet whimpered in dismay, until Frost began to speak into his ear. “The only sounds coming from your mouth will be moans. Understood?” he said. When Sleet nodded, he continued. “Unless, of course, our dear friend Mr. Dye emerges from his home.” Frost’s fingers molded around Sleet’s length, stroking him diligently and wrangling a strangled cry from the younger thief’s throat.   
  
Frost shifted, pressing two fingers to Sleet’s lips. “Suck,” he commanded.  
  
The hint of authority sent shockwaves of arousal through Sleet’s spine and without question he obeyed, drawing the two digits into his mouth and sucking on them as if they were Frost’s cock. He swirled his tongue around them, mimicking the motions he hoped to later be applying to the arousal he could feel pressed against his backside. He loved being at the mercy of others, bigger, stronger men. There was no need for him to deny it when it was pressing right up against him.   
  
In public, he would pretend heterosexuality until his balls turned blue. But in private, well, that was an entirely different matter.   
  
A low moan emanated from Sleet's throat as Frost rubbed a thumb over Sleet’s sex, a pearly drop of come slicking his finger. Sleet’s tongue laved Frost's fingers with his saliva, coating them until they were nearly dripping. His teeth scraped but didn’t bite, by now Sleet knew far better than that, yesterday not withstanding.   
  
Amethyst eyes stayed locked on the view from the window, unwilling to let his eyes stray from the continuous path of the three guards patrolling outside Dye’s residence. Though the thought of punishment was both exciting and arousing, it wasn’t worth the loss of a chance if he missed Dye’s exit. So he obeyed Frost, fighting against the pleasure that threaded through his system and the vibrant heat he could feel emanating from Frost.   
  
His eyes were open, watching, but Sleet was very much in tune to his other senses: Frost’s hand on his cock and Frost removing the fingers from his mouth. He trailed the wet digits over the curve of Sleet’s cheek before pulling them away and shoving his hand down the back of Sleet’s trousers. The slick fingers traced circles around the puckered muscle before diving inside without any warning.   
  
The quick entry sent a flash of pain through Sleet, but it was eclipsed by sudden pleasure as they probed and rubbed against his prostrate, sliding in and out of his body in a steadily pumping rhythm. He moaned, knees going slightly weak as arousal threaded through him. Were it not for Frost’s arms around his waist, he might have faltered. He could feel Frost’s length pressed against him and he moaned again, desperately trying to keep his cries quiet.   
  
His fingernails scrabbled against the peeling wood of the windowsill, sharp pricks of tiny splinters digging into his skin but he ignored the pain as Frost twisted his fingers harshly, pulling a strangled whimper of pleasure from Sleet's throat. He was torn between wanting to shove backward into the penetration or forward into the fingers still encircling his cock. The pleasure was overwhelming and his breath came in heavy pants, sweat dotting his brow.   
  
Sleet gave in and pushed himself forward into Frost’s palm, crying out as heat spread through his body when Frost bent his head forward, dragging his teeth and tongue down Sleet’s neck. A sharp pain raced through his collarbone before realized that Frost had bit him, and not gently at that. The pain mixed with his pleasure and he began to writhe in Frost’s grip, spikes of arousal creating a cresting wave of ecstasy that threatened to bowl him over. Sleet’s body began to tremble as warm breath whispered across his flesh.   
  
“Do it, Sleet,” Frost ordered huskily, his voice a deep purr as he gave a rather rough stroke to the Sleet’s cock, pulling out a garbled cry of pleasure. “Spill all over the wall. Mark it.”   
  
Sleet moaned, the words igniting his libido to even greater heights. He struggled to keep his eyes open, finding them fluttering more and more as his hips worked between the two ecstasies. A third finger joined the two within him, pumping in and out steadily, mimicking the actions of Frost’s cock. They brushed over his prostate, and stars danced in his vision. Whimpers caught in his throat as he rolled his hips backward, forcing Frost’s fingers to go deeper, just as he wanted.   
  
“Ungh...” Sleet moaned, biting down on the words that threatened to spill from his lips. Begging, pleading, something.   
  
He wanted Frost to replace those fingers with something thicker, longer, filling him until he could feel it in his throat. Sleet arched his back as Frost’s mouth scraped over the back of his neck again, biting his flesh harshly.   
  
He was so close, he could feel it building up inside of him. His hips began to undulate in time to Frost’s steadily pumping fingers as they curled and rubbed on his prostate. His cock leaked copiously, the fluid adding lubrication to Frost’s hand as he pumped into the firm grip. He bucked back and forth on the digits impaling him, picturing in his mind the older male bending him over and fucking him raw. His fingers coiled around the windowsill as he fought to stay on his feet, knees buckling under the relentless onslaught.  
  
“Come for me,” Frost demanded roughly, his tongue scraping across the shell of Sleet’s ears. He sounded terribly aroused, his voice strained and harsh as he urged Sleet forward, twisting his fingers almost violently inside Sleet as he squeezed Sleet’s cock. “Do it now.”   
  
The obvious command was all that Sleet needed to send him over the edge. He shuddered, clamping down on what would have been an extremely loud cry as he shot his seed over the crumbling wooden wall, and dribbled on Frost’s fingers. His entire body tensed as he bit down on his lip, tasting blood in an effort to rein in his verbal cries, though the nonverbal whimpers echoed in his throat.   
  
Lips closed over Sleet’s before he realized that Frost had unfurled his fingers and gripped Sleet's chin with a sticky hand, shoving his tongue into Sleet's mouth. He tightened his hold on Sleet’s hip with the other, grinding an aching, needy cock against Sleet's ass. Sleet panted into the desperate kiss, grudgingly letting go of the windowsill to thread his hands through Frost’s hair and keep their lips together.   
  
Suddenly, without warning, Frost jerked away from him, eyes narrowing as he turned his head toward the window. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, pulling away from Sleet and hastily grabbing for something to wipe his soiled hand on.   
  
Sleet followed his gaze, amethyst eyes widening in realization. Dye was currently climbing into a mini-carriage, most likely off to the tavern. They had nearly missed their chance. He rapidly began to retie his pants, shoving his spent cock back inside as he cast a sideways look at Frost, knowing that the older man must be aching from a needed relief.   
  
“You--"  
  
Frost smirked, looking up and matching gazes with Sleet. He lazily trailed one hand to his groin. “You owe me later,” he uttered huskily, lust echoing in his dark eyes. “As well as punishment for looking away.” He tossed a soiled cloth that he had scrounged to the ground.   
  
Despite having just come, Sleet felt a tremor of pleasure spread up his spine, arousal threading through his veins. He nodded in response, swallowing thickly before casting one quick glance out the window. Dye’s carriage was pulling off.  
  
“Let’s go,” Frost ordered. Sleet was quick to comply.   
  


****


	3. Darkness Descends: Part Three

They slipped across the road as swiftly and silently as shadows, using the confusing half-darkness of twilight as their cover. Their footsteps made no sound across the hardened dirt of the narrow road. While the guards were occupied with watching their master leave, Sleet and Frost slid past them, edging close to the security wall.  
  
Despite the darkness of the approaching night, Sleet easily kept up with Frost’s lead. The man was truly a wonder to watch in the midst of a mark. He was incredibly focused, allowing nothing to distract him, and constantly on alert. His muscles bunched and flexed enticingly beneath his clothing as he moved, every step fluid and precise.  
  
They eased around the back of the house, the cover of darkness aided by the tall trees that grew around Dye’s estate. Any idiot could climb up one of the large trees and drop down within the walls, or use the thick branches for cover. But Frost and Sleet weren’t planning on being so foolish. They had other means of getting inside.   
  
The ground began to dip, descending toward the underground tunnel that led to the pantry. However, there was also a narrow embankment that lined the downward slope. It was this embankment that Frost and Sleet used, keeping to the shadows and out of view of the guards in front of the pantry entrance.   
  
The long and narrow ledge ended right at the cave's mouth, which was dimly lit by torches. Three guards stood just below them, no more than five feet away, staring out into the night sky with evident boredom. If either Sleet or Frost made a noise, their game would come to an end.   
  
As Frost drew to a halt, obviously planning their entrance, Sleet took the moment to assess the situation. The man-made tunnel was wide enough for a horse-drawn cart and was founded by thick slabs of wood embedded into the sides and two larger runners that supported the roof. Torches lit the tunnel, illuminating what would otherwise seem like an impenetrable darkness.   
  
In front of him, Frost made a quiet gesture with one hand to which Sleet nodded wordlessly, the meaning clear. Follow his lead.   
  
Frost slipped down from the high embankment, dropping at least seven feet to land silently on the ground just behind the three guards. He crouched low, edging toward the tunnel as he kept one eye on the soldiers. None of the three noticed to him.   
  
Sleet followed suit, dropping down with cat-like agility to the dirt behind the guards and edging inside the tunnel. Frost was pressed up against the wall, hiding in a shadowy alcove formed from uneven carving of the hard-packed dirt. Frost pointed to the roof above him and Sleet followed the motion with his eyes, noticing the wooden boards that ran perpendicular to the walls.  
  
Hmph, the tunnel might as well have been built for thieves. If they could get up there, it would be easy street to the other end with no fear of being seen, which appeared to be Frost’s plan.   
  
Frost gave Sleet a heave up onto the boards and in turn, Sleet hauled him to the top. From then on, it was smooth sailing to the other side where, predictably, no guards waited in the damp undercellar.   
  
“That was painfully easy,” Sleet remarked, his voice barely above a whisper as they dropped down on the other end, stretching the cramped muscles in their necks and backs. Sleet's spine cracked in protest, the tinny sound echoing throughout the empty cellar.   
  
“I never said it wouldn’t be simple,” Frost commented quietly before tilting his head toward the raised platform that led to a door – locked most likely – and the small dumbwaiter to the right of it. “Think you can fit through that?”   
  
Sleet plucked a few stray splinters from his fingers and pulled on his gloves, flexing his hands. He crossed the room, passing several crates of food and wine that had been delivered earlier that day. He unlatched the dumbwaiter and swung it open, mentally measuring the size. Again, it was a piece of cake, almost as if the dimensions had been made with him in mind.   
  
Propping himself just inside the lip of it, Sleet shot Frost a self-assured grin. “No problem,” he bragged with a wink. “I’ll be back faster than you can blink.”   
  
Frost crossed his arms. “Do try not to attract attention.”   
  
“Do I ever?” Sleet retorted cheekily before waving his fingers at Frost and sliding into the dumbwaiter duct, nose instantly wrinkling at the billows of dust that rose with the action.   
  
Sleet craned his neck within the small confines of the shaft, confirming that Frost, with his broad shoulders, would not have fit within it, much less moved around. He supposed, in some ways, his small stature came in handy, but there was no way he would admit that aloud. It was dark within the duct, thin streams of light coming in various intervals but he had to rely on his instincts. He could see the dumbwaiter platform high above him, most likely on the highest floor and hoped that no one decided to use it while he was climbing.   
  
Brushing his gloved hands together, Sleet braced his hands against the wall of the shaft and began to climb. “Thinking me some damn island monkey,” he muttered under his breath, grunting as he began the arduous, vertical ascent.   
  
_With an attitude like that, it is a wonder he respects you at all._  
  
Frowning, Sleet paused. Was that a voice he just heard? Sleet completely stilled, straining his ears to catch another sound. But he heard nothing, save the skittering of rats somewhere near and the creaking of the ropes from the dumbwaiter above him. But he could have sworn someone had talked to him. His head began to ache, a dull throbbing at the right of his skull.   
  
“I think I may be losing my mind, on top of everything else,” he mumbled to himself before shaking his head and continuing the climb, wincing when a particularly new pulse of pain flared out from his head. What luck.   
  
At the first door, the second landing, Sleet gingerly braced himself against the wall and ever so cautiously pushed open the tiny flap, peering into the room that he could only assume was the kitchens, judging by the smell. He scanned the room carefully as he opened his ears, detecting no one present. Perhaps Dye was a loner, preferring to dismiss his general staff at evenfall. It was not unusual for the wealthy to do so.   
  
Waiting a few minutes more, Sleet surreptitiously opened the flap and dropped down inside the silent kitchen. He crept across the floor, registering two doors, one to his left and one on the far wall. He peeked into the nearest door, finding it was a small storage closet. Filching a couple of sugar cookies, he munched quietly and moved to the next, peering out into an empty hallway.   
  
A strange chill raced up his spine and he had the odd feeling of being watched. He peered up and down the hallway, but couldn’t find anyone. Perhaps Dye didn’t believe in guards within the house, likely thinking they would steal from him. Most did. It only made Sleet’s job easier. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone or something was following him. His head throbbed again.   
  
Sleet winced but nevertheless slunk silently down the hallway toward the descending staircase at the far end. No wonder so many people were able to steal the taxes, it was painfully easy to do so. Though others probably had different methods. He peered over the railing, noting the presence of two guards standing inside the palatial front entrance. They would be easy to slip around. Both men appeared bored, almost asleep on their feet.   
  
To either side of the front doors, two more corridors led in opposite directions. Another hall led alongside the stair where Sleet crouched, heading deeper into the blatantly oversized home. There was a door just below Sleet's present position on the lower floor, opposite an elegant vase on a table. The door was hidden by the curve of the stairs, and, if Sleet guessed correctly, most likely lead to the pantry.   
  
Popping the cookie into his mouth, he grabbed onto the railing and leapt over, shimmying effortlessly down. He dropped to the lower level with nary a sound, thanks to the thick crimson carpet beneath him. He crouched for a moment; ears perked for sentries but only heard the low murmur of conversation from those guarding the front door.   
  
The familiar anticipation that went along with the adrenaline of being a thief hummed pleasantly in his veins as he crept across the floor and silently hitched the latch on the door for the pantry. He actually enjoyed his occupation, the stalking and the shadows; the thrill of procuring things that weren’t his own. It was amusing to outsmart the opposition, to take a risk rather than spend his life safe in some cocoon of monotony.   
  
The door slid open with a bare creak and he quickly glanced over his shoulder, to make sure that it wasn’t heard. Neither guard stirred, too caught up in their conversation. Judging from their leers, it was probably something sexual. It wouldn’t surprise Sleet in the slightest.   
  
On the other side, Frost was waiting with some impatience.   
  
“Stop for a little sightseeing?” Frost sniped in a harsh whisper as he eased out of the pantry and into the shadows of the hall, closing the door silently behind him.   
  
He turned, and regarded Sleet coolly before his hand came up and brushed at the corner of the Sleet’s mouth, knocking away a few stray crumbs. His lips curled into a smirk.   
  
“It was a snack, I see,” he commented dryly.   
  
Sleet shrugged. “They were good. You should have one.”   
  
But Frost was hardly listening to him, his eyes darkening as his thumb lingered over the younger thief, rubbing the bottom lip. Sleet’s breath caught in his throat at the unexpected, erotic move and his heart picked up the pace, body thrumming in anticipation. Frost’s brow furrowed just a fraction before Sleet suddenly felt himself shoved backward against the wall of the stair, barely avoiding a small end table and its precariously balanced vase.   
  
Frost mashed their lips together, shoving his tongue hungrily into Sleet’s mouth. Sleet swallowed a moan, his hands coming up and digging into the hard muscle of Frost’s arms. This was dangerous, out in the open with guards just down the hall, which only served to excite Sleet more, making his blood rush through his veins. Knowing that they could be caught at any moment made Sleet weak in the knees. Thinking that Frost wanted him badly enough to risk it made Sleet's cock throb, soaking the cotton of his underclothes.   
  
His mouth was devoured, Frost greedily stealing his breath until there was hardly none left. Sleet sagged against the wall, his will to remain standing rapidly fading. And then, just as abruptly as he had begun, Frost stopped, pulling away from Sleet and licking his lips. He released his hold, lust brimming in his eyes.   
  
“I’ve never had a taste for sweet things,” he replied huskily, abruptly turning away from Sleet and peering down the hall. “There should be another stair around back. Dye keeps the safe on the third floor.”   
  
Frost had done that on purpose, the teasing bastard.   
  
Sleet jerked his head into a sullen nod. “Lead on,” he gritted out, trying to ignore the raging hard on in his pants. He reached down, squeezing his cock, forcing it to obey his will.   
  
As usual, it seemed to have a mind of its own and only throbbed with greater desire.   
  
Frost was already turning away, steps no louder than a whisper across the carpet. He edged around the back, stepping through one doorway behind the staircase and emerging into a small sitting room complete with fireplace. Other than the paintings on the walls, there was nothing of great worth within. At least, not to Sleet.   
  
They passed quickly through this room, Sleet picking up a fascinating figurine on his way through. Small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, it slipped easily into his pouch where it was tucked away for later perusal. After all, they were there for a much larger prize.   
  
Pushing through a swinging door, they found themselves in a small alcove containing a long set of spiraling stairs fashioned completely of metal. Past these was another doorway, the fading light of the setting sun gleaming from beyond it. Sleet had no interest in the exit, instead craning his neck to appraise the limits of the stair. If his estimations were correct, it appeared to link to the third floor alone. An odd construction for the home, but he didn’t even want to begin to think of Dye’s kinks and so he left it at that.  
  
Frost wasted no time in ascending the metal contraption, a hint of eagerness in his movements. Intrigued by his occasional lover’s behavior, Sleet was even more certain that there was something more than tax money in the safe.   
  
“This many stairs are unnecessary,” Sleet grumbled to himself, cutting his eyes at the steepness.   
  
He was in shape but this was still not fun. He swore that they kept swaying and the pulsing at the back of his eyes had returned, making everything a bit blurry until he blinked it all away.   
  
Frost briefly over his shoulder. “Would you rather a journey through the front door?”   
  
“Don’t patronize me.”   
  
“As you wish.”   
  
The top of the stairs dumped them into another deserted hallway. Sleet had expected at least a guard or two, though he supposed Dye didn’t think anyone would be able to make it that far into his home. Across from them was a door, cracked open with just a hint of rosy color beyond. Frost headed toward it without hesitation.   
  
Inside was an opulent bedroom in varying shades of cream and pink that made Sleet ill with just a glance. The walls were bare except for two ostentatious self-portraits of Dye and his equally hideous wife. An elegant chair hogged one corner, and opposite to it was a wardrobe, left slightly open though Sleet had no interest to peek within. He tugged his eyes away from the atrocious décor and grinned when he caught sight of the enormous black safe. Sleet's fingers twitched.   
  
Sleet whistled. “He keeps the safe in his bedroom?” he said, concerned with what Dye might do with the coin he kept in the safe. “I wish I could see the look on his face when he comes home and finds it empty.”  
  
“You’re a child sometimes,” Frost said as he knelt in front of the safe, bringing himself eye level with the dual set of locks, one a key, the other a combination.   
  
Sleet shrugged, sliding the door shut and keeping an ear out for approaching guards, if any. “And you’re too serious.”   
  
There was no response from the stoic thief as deft fingers worked at the complicated structure of the safe. Sleet leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms as he watched Frost work. He enjoyed doing so because the intensity of concentration that the other man employed was fascinating.   
  
Brown eyes had darkened to near coal and Frost had a deep furrow in his brow. The locks opened like coy maidens beneath his touch, teasing then finally submitting with a quiet click. The heavy door cracked open by an inch, and Frost rose to his feet, grasping it by the side and tugging it outward.   
  
Sleet’s eyes rounded at the sight of the stacked money as he mentally added it up. There was certainly more than he could carry on his own but he was sure as hell going to try. The weight alone would drag him down.   
  
There was something else as well. Something which was most definitely not money and the thing that had caught Frost's eye, staring with evident longing.  
  
It didn’t appear anything special. The box was small and ornate, decorated in a fashion similar to something from the southern countries. It was about the size of Sleet’s clenched fist.  
  
Sleet shook his head, reaching for the slim box. “I knew you had an alternate motive,” he said with a roguish grin. “Tax money isn’t your style.”   
  
His fingers brushed against the smooth, silk-covered surface, but he unexpectedly felt some resistance. It was as if he had to push through an invisible barrier to grasp the item. Frowning, Sleet recoiled for a moment before pressing through the odd sensation and ignoring the thick force of foreboding. It added to the headache at the back of his mind, making his eyes burn and temples throb.   
  
Sleet pulled the box from the small shelf and cradled it in his hands, staring curiously. It was bizarrely light, as if nothing were inside it. He couldn’t make out any of the symbols on the box either. They weren’t common, he was sure, but something else entirely. He had never seen them before.   
  
“What’s in it?”   
  
Frost shifted. “Open it and see.”   
  
Shrugging, Sleet proceeded to do just that. His thumb found the simple gold latch.   
  
_Do not break the seal!_   
  
The words pounded in his skull, agonizingly loud and Sleet gasped, wincing from the sudden pain. He nearly dropped the box in his shock.   
  
“What is it?”   
  
Sleet waved off Frost’s mild concern – if that was what he wanted to call it – with his free hand. “It’s nothing,” he lied, fresh pain shooting behind his eyeballs. The headache was rapidly becoming a full-blown hurricane within his skull. He longed for a fine leaf of salica which would cure his malady in an instant.   
  
Sucking in a deep breath in hopes of driving away the pain – and sudden madness since he was beginning to hear voices – Sleet’s thumb flipped the latch. The top popped open with a faint click, a strange pulse of something tingling through his hand as he did so.  
  
The prize within came into view. Nestled on a velvet cushion the same blood-red shade as the box itself, was a small, round object the size of a children’s marble. Grey and onyx swirled together in a shifting mist within the glassy structure. To Sleet’s trained eye, it was beautiful, though he did not recognize the item or any worth associated with it.   
  
Sleet’s fingers plucked the sphere from its pillow, dropping the container to the floor. It felt smooth to the touch, and oddly cold. He lifted his eyes to Frost, finding him staring at the object with a strange mixture of longing, relief, and… anger? For the life of him, Sleet could not understand why.   
  
“Is it worth something?” he asked, if only to fill the strange silence. He rolled the marble around his palm, eyes drawn to the intriguing dark swirl.  
  
Frost shook his head, a lock of brown hair falling from behind his ear and swinging into his face. “To Brions? No.” He plucked the item from Sleet’s hand, holding it up to the light barely streaming in through the gauzy curtains of the window. “But to me, it is the most valuable item in the world.” A smirk stole over Frost’s lips as he admired the play of light over the glass.   
  
The expression was something Sleet had not seen on Frost before. Brown eyes gleamed unnaturally, a strange glimmer in the dimness of the room. It made Sleet want to take a step backward before he even realized what he had thought, a sense of foreboding so thick that he could nearly taste it. And then Frost’s free hand shot out and grabbed Sleet by the hair, dragging him in for a kiss.   
  
Sleet stumbled against Frost, his hands landing against Frost's chest as he allowed the violent, possessive kiss. Frost’s tongue aggressively jabbed into his mouth, devouring him thoroughly. A moan slipped from between Sleet’s lips and he clutched at Frost’s shirt. The coppery tang of blood invaded his senses when he was nipped sharply, the sting ultimately welcome. The foreboding disappeared, replaced so rapidly by lust that Sleet almost didn't believe that it had ever been there.   
  
His mouth was ruthlessly plundered and Sleet let his tongue lay slack, Frost dominating him through and through with the rough kiss. His fingers clutched onto the other thief's shirt, white-knuckled, as he rubbed himself against Frost. He wanted and needed, despite the release he felt earlier. The adrenaline rush from thieving and the danger created a heady sense of need that was overwhelming him completely.   
  
Frost jerked their lips apart when Sleet's eyes began to glaze over with arousal. “I believe you owe me a little something,” Frost said huskily, locking his eyes on Sleet.  
  
Sleet blinked. “Here?” He looked nervously toward the closed door and thought of the guards that were somewhere in the building. He didn’t have it in him to be quiet. “But--”  
  
The question did not have a chance to breach his lips before a hand brushed across his groin, exciting his half-awakened organ. The marble, it seemed, had already been put away. Sleet pushed his hips eagerly into the touch. His body responded to Frost’s ministrations as always, warming with want. His veins sparked, anticipation curling in his belly.   
  
“Are you arguing with me?” Frost’s voice was low and purposeful, sending a shiver down Sleet’s spine. “Should I take you over my knee right here and now?”   
  
“By the gods,” Sleet murmured, his mind seeming fit to supply him with all sorts of images and memories.   
  
He could imagine it – strewn helpless over Frost's lap, the deft fingers of one hand tangled tightly in his hair as Frost smacked his palm over Sleet's bare buttocks. His cock would rub frantically on the outside of Frost's thigh as the pain blossomed through him, his cheeks turning a cherry red. And when the pain and pleasure mixed, Frost would shove him to the floor and drive his length deep into Sleet, fucking him into the rug, thighs slapping repeatedly over the crimson flesh of Sleet's ass.   
  
Sleet moaned at the vivid imagery, his breath quickening. Arousal flooded his system and he pumped his hips against Frost’s upper thigh, the very words to beg for it on the tip of his tongue.  
  
“You like that idea,” Frost purred, fingers clenching tighter.   
  
Before Sleet could formulate an answer, Frost smirked and dragged him in for another kiss. His palm aggressively rubbed against Sleet’s groin and he edged the smaller thief backward, in the direction of the large and fancy bed. Sleet whimpered into Frost’s mouth, his tongue submitting to the eager caresses.   
  
The back of his knees struck the edge and Sleet was promptly pushed down onto it, ending their kiss. Frost remained standing, however, one hand tangled in Sleet’s hair. He arched his hips forward, groin in near perfect alignment with Sleet's face, and the musky smell of his arousal filtered to Sleet's nose.   
  
His mouth watered.   
  
Despite their current location and the prospect of getting caught, anticipation was a coiled snake in Sleet's gut. His sense of self-preservation lost to Frost's eroticism, drawn quickly into a web that he didn't want to escape from.   
  
“Unlace my breeches,” Frost ordered as Sleet's gaze was magnetically drawn to the bulge laying prominently beneath the dark fabric. “Take me out.”   
  
Licking his lips expectantly, Sleet’s fingers worked quickly at the simple twine. Frost’s arousal sprang free, angry red with need.   
  
He loved sucking cock, feeling the heavy weight of another man against his tongue. He enjoyed being overwhelmed and surrounded by his lover, taking a man deep in the most intimate of ways. Frost was no exception, though Sleet had no intentions of ever saying so aloud.   
  
But Sleet knew the game. Anticipation was thrumming inside of him, yet he waited for further instruction, hands clenching impatiently on his thigh.   
  
“Lick the tip,” Frost demanded lustfully, his voice taking on the thickness of need.   
  
Sleet’s hands rose to grip Frost’s hips as he leaned forward and breathed hotly on the older man’s dripping shaft. Fingers nestled more firmly in his hair as Frost gripped him, a silent command for more than just the faint touches.   
  
“No teasing,” Frost growled, the sound sending a shock of want straight to Sleet’s groin. Frost’s voice was enough to melt him into a nice, bottom-boy puddle.  
  
His tongue slid out of his mouth, lapping delicately at the tip of Frost’s cock and catching the pearly drop. The bitter essence rolled on his tongue and Sleet swallowed instinctively.   
  
“Wrap your lips around my cock,” Frost continued, his voice strained and tight. It was enough for Sleet to peek a glimpse at him from beneath his lashes, enjoying the evidence of Frost's restraint.   
  
All too eager, Sleet closed his lips around the mushroomed tip and sucked. A rumbling purr and tightening of fingers was the reaction he received.   
  
Sleet opened his mouth wider, pulling more of Frost’s cock between his lips. He licked and slurped at the taut flesh, tracing veins with his tongue. His hands found their own rhythm when they began kneading at Frost’s hips. His teeth scraped very gently, ever mindful of Frost’s hatred of being bitten.   
  
“Very good,” Frost murmured appreciatively as Sleet’s eyes rolled up to meet his, cheeks hollowed in from the suction when Sleet took him deeper. “If we weren’t here, I would punish you for earlier, but I daresay your moans would be too loud.”   
  
Torn between being indignant and aroused, a half-moan rumbled in Sleet’s mouth. The vibrations transferred to Frost’s arousal and his hips bucked forward, straining for more of the pleasure that Sleet had to offer him. His eyes darkened, dilating with lust. Dark lashes fluttered briefly before Frost was able to regain control.   
  
He thrust his hips forward, forcing Sleet’s mouth open wider as he shoved himself further. Sleet relaxed his muscles as Frost’s cock slid into his throat. His nose brushed thick, wiry curls and he was once again surrounded by the familiar, musky scent. Swallowing around the cock in his mouth, Sleet’s tongue flicked at the hardened flesh.   
  
Frost hissed in desire, beginning to take control and rocking his hips in and out of Sleet’s mouth, forcing Sleet to breathe only in the brief moments of respite. Sleet groaned at the dominance, able to feel saliva trickling from the corners of his mouth. His fingers clenched on Frost’s hips, his own arousal straining in his pants and wetting the fabric of his breeches. He longed to reach down and stroke himself.   
  
Precome slithered down his throat and he could feel the pulsing of Frost’s blood against his tongue, making his own body pool with need. He shifted uncomfortably against the bed, finally dropping one hand from Frost’s hip with the intention of reaching for his cock. Frost thrust forward, burying himself completely in Sleet’s mouth.   
  
“Stop,” he ordered, breath ragged. “Save that for later.”   
  
Sleet was torn between wanting to sate his arousal now, and waiting for whatever Frost had planned. Need coiled in his belly and he let out a frustrated moan, clenching his fingers tightly before returning his hands to Frost’s hips and working his mouth more eagerly over Frost’s cock. The older thief purred in satisfaction, increasing the rate of his thrusts.   
  
It became more and more difficult for him to find room to breathe but Sleet ignored that, letting Frost do as he wished. Fingers massaged at his scalp as Frost ruthlessly thrust in and out of his mouth, his cock swelling against Sleet’s tongue. More precome slithered down his throat, Frost not bothering with restraint since time was not available to them.   
  
“I'm close,” Frost panted sharply, gritting his teeth to lower his tone. “Swallow it, Sleet.”   
  
With only the thought to obey, Sleet relaxed his throat and pressed forward, taking Frost as deep as he was capable. When Frost groaned , Sleet kicked it up a notch, humming around the flesh in his throat. There was a painful tightening of fingers before Frost bucked forward, shooting his load down Sleet's throat.   
  
Sleet struggled to find room to breathe as he swallowed reflexively. Frost hissed through his teeth, panting as he released. Sleet's tongue flickered over his sensitive length, prolonging the pleasure as long as possible. His scalp stung from the rough treatment and his own body thrummed with need, but he tried to ignore it, concentrating only on Frost.   
  
It was several moments before Sleet drew back slightly, his tongue sliding over Frost's softening cock and lapping up all traces of the man's release. He let the thief slip from his mouth, idly wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He looked up to find dark brown eyes staring down at him, smoldering with lust and glimmering with something else that he didn't recognize. It was slightly manic, a glance that sent a shiver of unease down Sleet's spine.   
  
But the moment Frost blinked, the glimmer disappeared.   
  
A hand cupped Sleet's chin and dragged him upward, pressing their lips together violently. Frost hungrily delved into his mouth, his free hand sliding around Sleet's waist and drawing them together, yanking him up from the bed. Sleet gasped as his erection encountered the hard planes of Frost's body and rolled his hips, desire sparking down his spine.   
  
His hands grasped at Frost's shirt, dragging himself nearer as the older thief devoured his mouth, tongues sliding slickly together in a motion that was pure domination. Sleet rubbed his groin against Frost, desperately needing something to quell what was building inside of him. The other man's fingers on his chin were rough, directing the ferocious kiss.   
  
Sleet didn't question where the sudden surge of need came from either, or the strange desperation in Frost's kiss. It wasn't in Sleet's nature to wonder about a good thing and he hoped that Frost had changed his mind and fucking him over Dye's bed was in the future after all. His body burned and he didn't want to spill himself in his pants when there was a perfectly good chance for something real in front of him.   
  
Frost, however, obviously had other things in mind when he abruptly ended the kiss, leaving Sleet panting, his body thrumming with need. He moved forward, trying to drag Frost back down, but the older thief's grip on his chin was too strong to be budged.   
  
“Have you an urge to be caught then?” Frost asked, his husky voice low with amusement.   
  
Sleet blinked, frantically trying to recall some sort of rationality through the burning of his blood. “Fuckin' tease,” he hissed, his loins throbbing. “You have your prize. Let's get out of here.”  
  
Frost chuckled and released him, instead reaching for something tucked into his tunic. “Not without your prize,” he said, tossing said item over his shoulder.   
  
Sleet caught the thick fabric easily, unfolding it to find a thick, cloth bag, definitely strong enough to carry the heavy coin. He peeked inside and caught sight of some bits and pieces of light silk, fabrics to keep the coins from clinking together too noisily. Frost had thought of everything. That didn't mean Sleet forgave him for the raging hard on currently throbbing in his pants.   
  
Sleet headed for the safe, scooping out coin to fill his bag. “Thinking of me? How sweet.”  
  
Frost didn't respond, stepping quietly beside Sleet to fill his own bag as well. The marble had been his goal, no doubt, but Frost was still a thief. He wouldn't walk away from so much coin for the taking.   
  
The two thieves worked in a hurried silence, having already overspent their time. The encroaching twilight a stark reminder that Dye and his wife would be returning soon.   
  
Sneaking out was a lot easier than sneaking in, Sleet noticed with some satisfaction. The bags were strapped to their backs, freeing their hands. Frost slung open one of the windows which was within reaching distance of a large tree with thick, strong branches. Nimble leaps brought them within the safety of its hold, and scrabbling about in the branches deposited them on the other side of the high wall enclosing Dyer's property. It would have been impossible to reach that tree from the outside but from within, it was the perfect escape plan.   
  
The darkness made it easier to slip unnoticed around the guards patrolling the grounds and they soon crept back into the main lanes of Tawnry. Sleet was grinning like a fool at their success while Frost remained silent, which wasn't unusual.   
  
Sleet's cheer was highlighted by the fact that his headache had subsided, perhaps driven away by exhilarating. He could tell by the weight of his pack alone that he would live comfortably for quite some time. Thoughts of leaving Tawnry, maybe changing locations to a bigger town with greater luxuries, crossed his mind.   
  
“Are the Wonder Idiots home?” Frost asked, drawing nearer to Sleet as they were surrounded by the noise of city life.   
  
Sleet tilted his head back in thought. “Maybe, maybe not.” A salacious grin curved his lips. “Why?”   
  
Frost drew to a halt in the street with Sleet having to pull up short before crashing into him. “You wouldn't want them to see your profits, would you?”  
  
“Call me greedy but I want it all to myself,” Sleet answered.   
  
Usoff and Yaris were his friends but he didn't owe them a damned thing. This was his mark and no one ever said he had to share. Sleet wasn't noble and didn't give a damn about honor. He just wanted food in his belly and clothes on his back.   
  
“How terribly generous of you,” Frost said, stepping closer, the distance between them minimal at best.   
  
Sleet's eyes darted around nervously, taking note of the press of the crowd. It was smaller than usual considering that the sun had already gone down for the day but it was still far more public than Sleet would have liked. He took a step backward, out of Frost's reach.   
  
“We're in public, Frost,” he urged under his breath, hoping no one had noticed the intimacy of their position.  
  
Frost gave him a long, solid look, one eyebrow twitching before he turned on his heel and waved dismissively at Sleet. “Let's go.”  
  
Sleet frowned, watching Frost's departure with some confusion. Why was he acting so goddamned weird? Shaking his head, Sleet adjusted the bag on his back and followed his lover.   
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do welcome constructive feedback and critique. Also, I self-edit so if you notice a grammatical error, I would be grateful that you pointed it out. :)


	4. Darkness Descends: Part Four

“At least you'll finally be able to afford a place that isn't infested,” Frost said with some disgust, grinding his heel down on an insect as it skittered across the cracked wooden floor. The creature squelched beneath his boot.   
  
Sleet rolled his eyes, ignoring Frost's usual complaints. “Could you be any more gay?” he muttered, heading into the unused dining room. It wasn't his fault that the craphole was the best they could afford.   
  
“With your convenient lack of memory, you have forgotten that I _am_ gay,” he pointed out sarcastically. “And if you would stop playing games at Lady Crisan's, you would finally realize it as well.”  
  
Sleet ignored Frost, uninterested in continuing their usual disagreement, and crouched down to remove one of several loose boards concealing his lock box.   
  
“That's original,” Frost said as Sleet pulled up a board, revealing the empty space beneath the floor. “Everyone hides their valuables there.”  
  
“If you have a better idea, I would be glad to hear it,” Sleet retorted  
  
Frost slid the coin-laden bag off his shoulder and handed it to him. “Far be it from me to question your choices.”  
  
Sleet took the offered bag, giving Frost a probing look. The other thief was too guarded, however, and Sleet turned away, focused on hiding his plunder. He carefully shifted the bag in the dusty darkness beneath the floor, covering it in the years of grime that had gathered there.   
  
He never claimed to completely understand Frost, but after having sex with the man for a little over a year, Sleet had thought he had managed to catalog at least some of Frost's little quirks. He was intensely private, but had always been clear when it came to what he wanted from Sleet. Now, however, Sleet couldn't be sure.  
  
Sleet shifted the floorboard back into place and rose to his feet. He brushed his palms over his pants, wiping away the dust that had settled onto his fingers, intensely aware of Frost nearby. He knew that Frost was watching him, could feel the effects of that intense stare raking over his body.   
  
Sleet glanced distastefully at his fingers. “I need a bath,” he muttered under his breath, more to fill the heady silence than for anything valid to say.   
  
There was a subtle shift in Frost's position, a strange press in the air around Sleet, and then hands were on him, dragging him against Frost. A hot and hungry mouth closed over his, any protest dying in that instant as Frost jabbed his tongue through Sleet's lips, claiming him. Sleet moaned, his hands grabbing onto Frost's shirt and clenching tightly.   
  
Their bodies molded together, Frost wrapping his arms around Sleet's smaller frame. One hand cupped the Sleet's ass possessively, kneading and massaging. The kiss became increasingly demanding, but slowed in its intensity, probing and exploratory. Frost's other hand crept up Sleet's back, sliding beneath the hem of his shirt to press warmly against his lower back.  
  
Sleet's hips jerked forward, grinding his cock against Frost's hard thigh. Arousal sizzled through his veins and he sloppily returned the kiss. Fingers danced up his spine as Frost rolled his hips, an answering hardness pressing into Sleet's abdomen. A moan vibrated in Sleet's throat, caught behind his lips.   
  
Frost's hand left his ass, ignoring Sleet's noise of dismay, and moved to slide beneath the fabric of Sleet's trousers. One finger traced the crease of his buttocks, brushing teasingly over his puckered entrance. Sleet whimpered, encouraging, as the digit circled him, lightly touching the bud. It twitched needfully and Sleet sagged in relief when Frost finally slid one finger inside of him, lazily thrusting in and out.   
  
“Gods,” Sleet moaned, unconsciously pushing toward the penetration. “Fuck me.”  
  
Frost smirked, his lips moving to Sleet's neck where he scraped his teeth across the bared flesh. “All in due time,” he murmured, sliding his tongue across the faint impressions his bite left behind. Hot lips sucked greedily on Sleet's throat, marking him visibly.   
  
Sleet shuddered, his inner muscles clamping down on Frost's finger.   
  
“So eager,” Frost purred against Sleet's skin, slipping another digit alongside the other and curling both deeply. He dragged the nails of his other hand across Sleet's back, causing the thief to arch in his hold, baring his throat as he thrust his head back.   
  
“Shut up,” Sleet panted, writhing under the dual sensations. He needed to be fucked and soon. No more of these games. Though he didn't dare say it aloud, otherwise Frost would drag on their play all night and he would be left a panting, sweaty mess by morning.   
  
“Are you hurting?” Frost whispered, curling his tongue around Sleet's lobe and suckling on his ear. He pushed his fingers deeper, massaging directly over the Sleet's sensitive gland.   
  
Sleet's knees buckled and he gasped, clutching Frost tighter. He humped against Frost's upper thigh, desperately seeking stimulation. The sensations were driving him mad.   
  
“Yes!” he ground out through clenched teeth, both hating and loving every moment of it. “Damn it, Frost!” More pleasure shot through his veins and he dimly wondered if he would be reduced to coming in his breeches, rutting against Frost's leg like some crazed animal.  
  
Frost chuckled darkly and before Sleet even realized what was happening, Frost ceased his sensual torture and suddenly slung Sleet over his shoulder. His belly collided with the taller man's shoulder and his breath expelled in a painful whoosh as his cock jabbed into Frost's chest.   
  
“Damn it,” Sleet wheezed, wiggling in Frost's hold. “Put me down.”  
  
Smack!  
  
A palm slapped heavily over his ass, sending fire racing across his skin. The sharp sound and the stinging pain made him moan with anticipation of more and he unconsciously humped his hips forward, writhing against Frost's shoulder. The hand remained on his buttocks, shamelessly groping him.   
  
“If I had the time,” Frost murmured, though it was hard to hear from Sleet's position. “I would turn your ass scarlet.”  
  
“Promises, promises,” Sleet huffed, realizing that Frost was moving toward the bedroom.   
  
He was glad for that, not looking forward to fucking on the cold and dirty floor of the little used dining room. Sleet took the opportunity to kick off his boots, satisfied at the twin sets of clomps that came to his ears. He could always retrieve them later.   
  
Frost didn't respond to Sleet's jibe, stepping quickly into the bedroom and slamming the door shut behind him. He wasted little time in dumping Sleet on the bed, as if he were no heavier than a pair of trousers. Sleet bounced uncomfortably, his head spinning from the rapid change in position.  
  
“So damn rough,” Sleet grumbled, though the hardness of his cock was a testament to how much he enjoyed it.   
  
The bed dipped as Frost joined him, crawling over Sleet on hands and feet. He hovered like a sleek predator, dark hair hanging around his face and his eyes lit with lust. Sleet swallowed thickly at the sight of him, his own desire cresting over him in waves. He unconsciously reached up for the man at the same moment that Frost lowered his head and brutally kissed him, their teeth and tongues clashing together.   
  
Frost's hand slipped between their bodies and his deft fingers pulled at the ties to Sleet's pants. He eagerly lifted his hips to help as Frost ravaged his mouth. Sleet's own hands got to work, tugging insistently on Frost's shirt.   
  
With a parting nip to Sleet's lips, Frost pulled back and tugged off his tunic, throwing it casually to the floor. His bare chest was unsurprisingly dark, skin riddled with scars of too close encounters and his dusky nipples, peaked in the chilly air. Sleet had always been able to identify a few of the pinkish marks, one from a knife and another like a beast's bite, but a third, which was half-hidden by the waistband of Frost's breeches, he couldn't name. It almost looked like a brand.   
  
“Mesmerized?” Frost asked with a smirk on his face.   
  
Sleet's eyes rolled. “Yes, oh great one. Your god-like body has me captivated,” he retorted sarcastically, reaching up to remove his own shirt. It quickly joined Frost's on the floor.   
  
He waited for Frost to say something equally bantering in return, and was surprised to find that the other man's gaze seemed to be locked on the necklace sitting on Sleet's chest. Frost lifted his hand, his fingers brushing across the thin metal before he dipped his head and abruptly closed his lips around Sleet's nipple.  
  
Sleet's question died in his throat as he whimpered and arched, tingles spreading through his veins. Frost's teeth nibbled on the peaked bud, pulling the nub between his teeth and sucking harshly. His nipples were sensitive and Frost used that to his advantage, accompanying the torture by scraping his nails gently down Sleet's chest.   
  
A hand reached for Sleet's breeches and quickly tugged them off, throwing them to the side. Sleet's cock sprang into the cold air, seeping at the tip and desperately seeking relief.   
  
Frost turned his attention to Sleet's other nipple, leaving the first bruised and marked as he voraciously suckled on his new victim. Sleet moaned and one of his hands flailed for something to grasp. He managed to wrap his fingers around the headboard above him, drowning in lust. His legs parted, inviting Frost to kneel between them.   
  
Lips trailed much lower, teeth dragging across Sleet's abdomen. It was unusual, despite how wonderful it felt. Frost rarely, if ever, took the time to do anything more than fuck him stupid, or bruise him enough to both their satisfaction. This almost casual exploration was strange and yet Sleet wouldn't stop him for the world. It felt too damn good.   
  
And then Frost's lips were on his inner thigh seconds before he chomped down on the sensitive, paler skin. Sleet gasped at the sudden pain and Frost latched onto him, sucking _hard_.  
  
“Frost!” Sleet cried, his thigh throbbing but his cock pulsing nevertheless.   
  
He caught the barest glimpse of a smirk on Frost's lips before Frost grasped his legs and pushed them further apart, revealing Sleet completely. He moved closer to Sleet's weeping cock, his breath brushing warm across the tip. Sleet nearly cried out in frustration when he abruptly diverted his path however, stopping to latch onto a portion of Sleet's hip, marking him roughly again.   
  
Need was coiling like a fiery demon in Sleet's belly, reducing him to an incoherent mass of want that writhed under Frost's lips. Teeth raked across his skin, a warm mouth brushed across bruises made earlier. His body tightened in anticipation and it felt as if all his heat was bundled up in his groin, bursting to be set free.   
  
Hands were on his ass, kneading the flesh and parting the plump cheeks exposing his twitching entrance to the air. And then a tongue was licking him, a hot and wet line from his puckered entrance, over his balls, and up the length of his throbbing erection. His body bowed from the pleasure, practically trembling as a garbled moan burbled past Sleet's lips.   
  
“Be still.” The sharp order pierced through the fog, Frost's voice thick with lust and something else. But Sleet was far too gone to even contemplate translating that other nameless emotion.   
  
His hips twisted in Frost's grasp, thrusting into empty air. “I can't,” Sleet panted, the words degenerating into a whimper as Frost held down his hips and lapped his tongue at the pearly drop on the head of Sleet's cock.   
  
“You will,” Frost said, his breath a puff of warmth before he dropped his head and suddenly sucked Sleet's entire length into his throat.   
  
For a moment, Sleet's breath stopped as his world went white with pleasure. Frost rarely went down on him. He could probably count on one hand all the instances it had happened throughout their entire acquaintance. It was something scarce that Sleet constantly craved and it made him shudder, on the cusp of climax. His thighs throbbed from the rough bites and fingers plucked harshly at his nipples, twisting them with a violent edge.   
  
It was more than his already wound up libido could take. With a sharp cry, Sleet arched his back and spilled into Frost's mouth, unable to even give the other man a single warning. His fingers curled so tightly around the headboard that had he been stronger, he would have snapped the wood. It was one of the most intense orgasms he'd ever had and Sleet collapsed limply against the bed, a sweaty, panting mess.   
  
Frost wasn't done with him yet however.   
  
He lapped up the last of Sleet's release and let Sleet's softening organ slip from his mouth. Frost promptly latched onto the flesh in front of him, teeth sucking on the tender flesh over Sleet's hip bone. Sleet peeled open his eyes, body still thrumming from the force of his release. The pain of the bite was a dull throb.   
  
Frost let go of his skin with a faint smack of his lips before the bed dipped and he slid off of it. Sleet watched with growing interest as Frost promptly stripped out of his breeches, tossing them unceremoniously to the floor, but only after digging through one of the pockets for a slim bottle of oil. With that appropriated, he crawled back onto the bed between Sleet's legs.   
  
“Round two,” Frost purred, draping his body over Sleet's and engaging the other man in a deep, penetrating kiss.   
  
One hand tangled in dark strands as Sleet forced Frost closer. Fingers cool and slick tickled at Sleet's puckered muscle, drizzling cold oil over the ring of flesh. One long digit slid inside of him without further preamble; Sleet moaned and reflexively clenched around the intruder. His sated organ twitched, stirring once more.   
  
Frost reached up with his free hand and tangled his fingers in Sleet's hair, jerking his head back from the kiss and revealing the slim line of Sleet's throat. He promptly set to ravaging the pale flesh, tongue and teeth scraping over Sleet repeatedly.  
  
“More like round three,” Sleet managed to get out breathlessly, though he was rapidly losing coherency as a second finger joined the other, both probing deep inside his body.   
  
They brushed over his prostate and striking pleasure shot through him, causing his shaft to spring to life. Frost was merciless as he rubbed the sensitive gland over and over.   
  
“By the gods,” Sleet gasped, his body covered in renewed sweat. “I can't... I can't take it...” Truly, the pleasure was too much, following directly after his orgasm and his nerves already sensitive.   
  
A broken moan slipped from parted lips when Frost bit down on his neck, hard enough to mark the skin. The fingers in his hair tightened to a nearly painful level, pulling at his scalp. Sleet's free hand flailed and he grasped onto Frost's shoulder, bitten nails digging deep into the brown flesh.  
  
“You can,” Frost growled, his voice borderline animalistic. He abandoned his ravaging of Sleet's neck and moved back to pert nipples, viciously tugging on them with his teeth. “Grab the headboard.”  
  
Panting, Sleet didn't hear the order, his body writhing under the triple onslaught. His eyes slid closed, an effort to ground himself against the pleasure.   
  
“Sleet! Grab the headboard!”  
  
The command pierced his lust-fogged brain and both of Sleet's hands found their way to the wood. He curled his fingers around the thin slats, sounding every bit the whore as he surrendered his body to Frost's pleasure. The other man thrust his fingers deep into Sleet, mimicking what he would soon be doing with his cock.   
  
“You're such a slut,” Frost rasped, but it sounded almost affectionate, if Sleet dared to contemplate with his sex-fogged mind.   
  
He forced his eyes open, watching as Frost pulled back, slopping some of the odorless liquid onto his cock.  
  
“Don't pretend to hate it,” Sleet managed to shoot back as Frost slid forward, grabbing Sleet's hips with his hands and pulling him closer.   
  
Sleet's ankles locked behind Frost's back as the dark-haired man positioned himself. Sleet was completely open to him: arms sprawled above his head, legs spread wide and his body stretched across the bed. Pale skin was covered in sweat and bite marks; Sleet looked every bit the debauched man.   
  
Desire gleamed in brown eyes. “This is mine,” Frost murmured breathlessly, almost too quiet for Sleet to catch as his fingers tightened. He circled his hips, the head of his cock nudging at Sleet's ringed muscle but not entering.   
  
It was pure torture and Sleet just wanted Frost to thrust, to push forward and fill Sleet completely.   
  
“Frost,” Sleet moaned, shifting downward to meet the teasing organ. “Fuck me.”  
  
Frost ignored him, his hands leaving Sleet's buttocks and sliding along his sides, the action dangerously close to a caress. Frost leaned forward in a moment of uncharacteristic movement and Sleet opened his eyes, confusion flitting across his face. He saw a strange look in those dark eyes something that almost resembled regret but it was only a glimpse that was soon eclipsed by Frost's next kiss.   
  
A tongue pushed into Sleet's mouth as Frost thrust into him, filling him completely. Sleet's cry of pleasure was muffled by Frost's lips and he slowly began to move, rocking in and out with long, deep thrusts. Sleet lifted his hips to meet each motion, desperate for more.   
  
“Tight,” Frost rasped, the sound of his voice making Sleet shiver, and is hands continued to roam, gliding over sweat-slicked skin. Frost's hips snapped forward, drilling into Sleet as though trying to drive himself home, building a pleasure inside him that buzzed pleasantly through his veins.   
  
Sleet's cock bobbed in the air with each movement, leaking copiously. He uncoiled one hand from the headboard, determined to provide some much needed relief. But Frost's hand promptly smacked his away, an almost wild look in dark eyes.   
  
“Damn it!” Sleet cried, refusing to call it a whine as his hand obediently returned to the headboard. He wriggled invitingly, returning his hand to the headboard.   
  
“Don't exaggerate,” Frost gasped, sweat beading on his forehead as he finally wrapped his fingers around Sleet's cock and began to stroke him.   
  
Delicious heat flooded Sleet's body, centering around his groin and his eyes shuttered closed out of sheer bliss. “Yes!” he moaned, and canted his hips upward, pushing into Frost's hand as the other thief pounded into him.   
  
He could feel the force of Frost's stare, eyes watching him from behind damp bangs. “Come for me,” Frost ordered, voice low and commanding, each word emerging on the end of a pant. He twisted his fingers, dragging a breathy gasp from Sleet's lips.   
  
“Just a... little more,” Sleet pleaded, fingers curling painfully around the wood until he wasn't sure he'd be able to unwind them later. “Mmm... harder.”  
  
“Demanding... brat,” Frost huffed as he slammed his hips forward, burying himself deep inside of Sleet with a rough thrust that drove the breath out of Sleet.  
  
He gasped, back arching as the harsh thrust pushed him over the edge. Sleet cried out, a wordless sound of pleasure that was quickly swallowed by Frost's lips, as he spilled between their bodies, splattering over his own belly. Sleet twitched, whimpers echoing in his throat as Frost ruthlessly devoured his mouth, abandoning his grip on Sleet's cock to clutch the smaller thief's hips.  
  
Sleet broke away from the kiss with a sharp gasp, tipping his head back as Frost drew away, manipulating his body for his own pleasure. He pulled Sleet down to meet every violent thrust and all he could do was cling to the headboard and howl to the ceiling, each thrust hurting in such a good way. He was sensitive, too sensitive, and it hurt as much as it made his insides twist with heat.   
  
Sweat coated Frost's body in a glistening sheen, turning his skin an even darker shade. Sleet wanted to touch him so badly that his fingers trembled, or maybe that was the fault of his grip on the headboard. He wouldn't know.   
  
Frost's grip on his hips was bruising, and Sleet was certain he'd have handprints by the morrow, but he said nothing. Just focused his gaze on Frost, willing him to come, clenching down with his inner muscles in all the ways he knew Frost liked best.   
  
A keening noise, one that Sleet didn't dare name a whine, echoed in Frost's throat as he slammed inside of Sleet again and again. He muttered under his breath, words Sleet couldn't catch, that he wasn't even sure were Common.   
  
He looked up again, and Frost was watching him, dark eyes so intense that Sleet sucked in a breath. There was that something odd again, a ripple beneath the surface that Sleet couldn't name, before Frost blinked and it was gone, overtaken by a rush of pleasure. Frost's grip tightened to almost unbearable levels and then he threw his head back, slamming into Sleet with one last, fierce thrust.   
  
Heat flooded Sleet as Frost came, spilling himself inside. Sleet didn't bother to fight his moan, flexing his fingers around the columns of the headboard. He collapsed on the bed, body drained of energy as he struggled to catch a breath. But Frost wasn't done with him yet.   
  
The older man let go of Sleet's hips and reached up, carding his fingers through Sleet's hair and tipping Sleet's head back for a deep kiss. His tongue slid softly into Sleet's mouth, more taste and caress than fierce claiming, and Sleet shuddered, forcing his fingers to uncoil from the headboard.   
  
His legs dropped from Frost's waist, feet thumping onto rumpled curtains, as Frost slid out of him, leaving a sticky mess behind. Frost nipped at Sleet's lips, a signal to end the kiss, and began to draw back.   
  
Sleet's confusion reacted before the rest of him could catch up, his hand snapping out to grab Frost's arm before the other thief could escape. “You've been acting weird,” he said, surprised at how oddly hoarse his voice sounded. “What the hell's going on?”  
  
His attempts to force Frost to look at him were easily thwarted as Frost extricated himself from Sleet's grasp with no effort at all. “You're imagining things.”  
  
Sleet's eyes narrowed as he sat up, ignoring the faint twinge in his ass. “Am I?” he challenged, but when he shifted a mere second later, a hiss slipped past his lips. The sting of the bites on his thighs began to make themselves known.   
  
Frost didn't answer as he slid to the edge of the bed, contemplating the pile of clothes on the floor.   
  
Irritation peppered Sleet's veins, replacing the last of his pleasure, as he sat up, another demand on the tip of his tongue. He was distracted, however, when the sound of a door slamming reached his ears, along with the noise of drunken revelry.   
  
Usoff and Yaris had come home.   
  
Sleet stiffened, his gaze flickering to Frost, who had only managed to fish his trousers out of the mixed pile of clothing. Sleet could hear his friends banging around in the other rooms, hollering for Sleet to come from wherever he was hiding. At any moment they would bring their noise to his door, just to see if he was home.   
  
“Just great,” Sleet groaned, throwing his body back against the bed in defeat. “Would it be too much for you to hide?” he asked, only half-joking.   
  
Frost shot him a dirty look. “I refuse,” he said, and pulled on his tunic.   
  
“Then what are you doing?” Sleet demanded.   
  
“I've overstayed my welcome.” Frost hunted around on the floor for a missing boot. “I refuse to hide and you have an image to uphold.”  
  
Sleet snorted. “Too late for that.”  
  
“Sleet! Oy, you bastard! Get out here!” Yaris' voice rattled the walls, louder, no doubt, because of the alcohol swimming in his system.   
  
Dark eyes shifted to the door. “Don't insult my abilities by implying I can't sneak around two drunk idiots,” Frost retorted, sliding into his last boot and slinking toward the door.   
  
Sleet forced his body upward. “And not a bit modest,” he muttered, looking down at his ravaged body and gingerly touching the marks on his thigh. He came away with a few spots of blood and scowled. “You bastard, you broke the skin.”  
  
“Tell them a woman did it if it makes you feel better,” Frost said, hand curling around the knob as Sleet slid the bed behind him with a wince. “Goodbye Sleet.”  
  
Sleet sniffed. “Whatever,” he grumbled, reaching for his discarded pants. Until Frost's words filtered to his brain. Wait. _Goodbye_?  
  
He leapt to his feet, ignoring the throbbing in his lower back and stumbled toward the door, catching it before it had completely closed. “What did you--”  
  
Frost was already gone, disappearing into the shadows as though they had reached out to claim him.   
  
Frost had never said goodbye like that to him. It was always, “See you next time” or “Be ready for me again” or “Meet me at such-and-such.” Sleet frowned, not liking the unsettled feeling curling in his belly, and sitting on his shoulders like a hunching gargoyle.   
  
Two faces suddenly popped up in front of him, uncomfortably close. Sleet startled back, nearly falling against the door.   
  
“Lazy sot!” Yaris accused, thrusting a finger in Sleet's face as his grin stretched his face a mile wide. “Have you done any work today?”  
  
Sleet wrinkled his nose as the smell of cheap wine washed over his nose. “You're drunk,” he accused, smacking Yaris' finger out of his face.   
  
“No, you're sober,” Usoff corrected with a titter. He peered at Sleet with bleary grey eyes. “Geez, Sleet. You've been mauled.”  
  
He barely suppressed the urge to slap a hand over the incriminating evidence. Instead, Sleet smiled lazily. “What can I say? Ladies love me.”  
  
Yaris snorted. “More like whores.”  
  
Sleet tried his best to look offended. “As if you're luck was any better.”  
  
“Ha ha, so funny.” Yaris laughed. “A real comedian we have here. C'mon Sleet, get out of your den and join us in the kitchen.”  
  
“We brought grub,” Usoff added with a nod, bleached hair flopping over his eyes before he hastily shoved it back.  
  
As if on cue, Sleet's stomach produced a noisy grumble and he managed a sheepish look, rubbing the back of his head. “Alright. Lead the way.”  
  
The two friends, who were closer than brothers, shared a conspiratorial grin. “I knew food would be the only thing to drag you out,” Yaris crowed, winking at Sleet.   
  
Sleet waved him off, pulling his door shut behind him as he stepped out. He didn't want them to see the state of his room or his bed which was covered in spent seed. He felt sticky as well but would have to wait until he could rinse it off. Instead, he followed the drunken cacklers into the sparse and little used kitchen.   
  
“What's with the good mood?” Sleet asked, wondering just how Frost had managed to slip away without being seen.   
  
Usoff beamed as he waved his hands through the air. “A good mark,” he explained, rolling his tongue on the 'r'. “A _very_ good mark.”  
  
Sleet lifted his brow in disbelief. “Like the spice deal?” He remembered all too well the 'good mark' that was the very reason they had come to Tawnry in the first place   
  
“Nothing like the spice deal,” Yaris assured him. “In fact, it was ten times better.”  
  
Usoff entered the kitchen first, throwing open the creaky door with a loud bang. Inside, a single lantern flickered, casting the room in eerie shadows. But an inviting aroma of food wafted from a few cloth bags plopped on a table counter. Sleet's stomach rumbled again.   
  
“Come and celebrate with us,” Usoff said, throwing himself down into a seat at the table and reaching for one of the bags. “We'll even be so generous as to buy you a girl at Crisan's.”  
  
Sleet grimaced. He hated going to the madamery with its painted up whores and women who held no interest for him. Besides, he was sore and he didn't have the energy to fake it. He waved off their offer.   
  
“Nah, I'm tired,” he said with a very fake yawn. “I think I'll turn in early.”  
  
Two pairs of eyes immediately turned on him in disbelief.   
  
“Ya turnin' down free alcohol?” Usoff asked.   
  
“And a free lay?Yaris demanded. “What kind of girl wore you out?”  
  
Sleet reddened. “It's not like that.”  
  
“Oh, it isn't, is it?” Usoff wheedled around a mouthful of some kind of chewy bread. “You think this offer's going to come again?”  
  
Yaris clucked his tongue. “Now, Usoff. He just entertained a lady friend. Let him wallow here alone if he wants.”  
  
“Alone?” Usoff sounded scandalized. “With some woman who nearly ate our buddy alive? Surely you jest.”  
  
By the gods they were idiots.   
  
“True, true. She marked him up good. Makes a guy wonder if Sleet got anything out of it?” Yaris leered, swiping the back of his hand over his crumb-splattered cheek. “Or did she just have her wicked way with you and flee into the night?”  
  
Sleet scowled. “Maybe I'm just tired.”  
  
“And maybe we just won't offer you a freebie anymore, ne?” Usoff said. “Since you can't get it up and all.”  
  
“I can!” Sleet argued, and then knew he was trapped, for the two idiots took that as an agreement.   
  
“We knew you would,” Yaris crowed, and tossed Sleet a wrapped package. “Now eat something, will ya? You're all bones.”  
  
Sleet deftly caught the item, the aroma of meats and fresh bread wafting to his nose, making his mouth water. “Damn, the payoff was that good?” he asked, peeling open the layers to reveal roasted deer pressed between wheat slices. He took a huge bite.  
  
“Good enough,” Yaris replied smugly, a bragging twinkle in his eyes. He and Usoff weren't the most skilled of thieves, their choice in occupation more of a lack of options than any real decision. Then again, was Sleet much different? “Ya comin' or not?”  
  
Sleet knew he couldn't say no; they'd just badger him into giving in. “Fine. I'll go, but if she claims I'm less than enthusiastic, don't blame me,” he said. “Just let me change.”  
  
Usoff snorted. “Like they care how you look. Though she might try to snag the shiny, ne?” His eyes were sharper than usual as he peered at Sleet.  
  
Sleet was confused. “What the hell are you on?”  
  
It was Yaris who pointed to his chest. “Nice piece there. Haven't seen it before.”  
  
“It's worthless,” Sleet mumbled, voraciously diving into the sandwich. Sex with Frost always left him starving.   
  
Grey eyes examined the necklace critically. “Looks pretty pricey to me,” Usoff said. “I've never seen a design like that before.”  
  
Sleet shrugged. “Not my problem.”  
  
Edging around him, Yaris reached for the medallion on the leather and lifted it for closer inspection, frowning in thought. “Might be authentic,” he mused aloud. “Who knows. Where'd ya get it?”  
  
Sleet's eyes widened at the sight of the charm. That was most definitely _not_ the crappy piece he had picked up from the stranger's pockets. Instead, it was the silver necklace Sleet had been admiring earlier, the one of dark metal and onyx stone. Sleet's cheap bauble had vanished.   
  
Frost must have done it. But why? And how? No matter how slowly Sleet replayed the last thirty minutes, he couldn't recall a single moment when Frost had made the switch. Honestly, Frost's hands had been everywhere, and at some point, Sleet knew he had been reduced to an incoherent mess.  
  
The difference in their talents had never been so obvious. That Frost could not only remove the prior necklace but replace it with another without Sleet's knowledge was incredible.   
  
But why would Frost even bother? They'd never been the gift-exchanging types.   
  
A weird feeling settled in Sleet's belly, a twisting uncertainty that made him want to rush out the door in search of Frost. The mysteries were stacking faster than Sleet could contemplate them.   
  
Fingers snapped in front of his eyes, startling him from his reverie. “Yo, Sleet. Yer spacin' out man,” Yaris said jokingly.   
  
Sleet blinked. “Sorry.” He racked his brain, trying to come up with a suitable lie. “Oh, right. I copped it off some vendor at the marketplace.”  
  
Yaris let the necklace slip from his hands, plopping back against Sleet's chest with a dull thud that practically screamed expensive. “So you were actually working.”  
  
“Yeah.” He thought of the money he had stashed in the floorboard, but he owed his friends nothing. There was no rulebook that said he had to share. He had given them food money and paid the entire rent on his own enough times that he felt it was justified. The lazy bastards.   
  
_The only person you are trying to convince is yourself._  
  
Sleet winced, the sandwich suddenly all too dry in his mouth as the voice pounded across his brain. Damn hallucinations. He idly wondered if he was getting ill, because as far as he knew, voices in his head had never been a problem up until recently.   
  
_Haven't you even wondered what you gave him? Haven't you asked yourself how a small marble could be that important?_  
  
Sleet lifted a hand to his temple. Maybe he needed to be exorcised. Hearing voices was definitely on his list of not normal. Perhaps a vengeful spirit had attached itself to him.   
  
“Sleet, are you sure you're alright?” Usoff sounded concerned.   
  
He looked up to find both of them giving him odd looks. “Yeah, it's just a headache,” he explained, popping the last of the sandwich into his mouth. “Eating should clear it up.”  
  
Usoff rolled his eyes, digging into the bag on the counter and pulling out a pack of cookies which he dispersed to his partner in crime. “You're too thin,” he said around a mouthful of cookie.   
  
“A fat thief is a thief who can't squeeze out of tight spots.” Sleet grinned.   
  
Yaris snickered. “Another one of your thief mantras?”  
  
“Oh, shut it,” Sleet said, crumpling the paper his meal had been wrapped in and throwing it at Yaris' head. The blond easily ducked and the projectile careened off the wall behind him. “You just don't want to admit that my rules are right.”  
  
“The day I admit that'll be the day I quit bein' a thief,” Yaris scoffed.  
  
Tired of hearing the same old arguments, Usoff rose to his feet. “Okay, you two, enough flirting,” he declared loudly, placing his hands on Sleet's shoulders amidst the sputtering and shoving him toward the door. “Grab yer shit, partner. We're leavin'.”  
  
“Yes, yes,” Sleet said with a wave of his hand as he exited the kitchen, “No need to be pushy.”  
  
The door swung shut behind him, closing on anything else they might have had to add. Sleet steered himself back to his own room, which still smelled like sex and Frost.   
  
Frost who was acting strangely all of the sudden.   
  
That uncertain feeling built in Sleet's stomach again, making him clench around the delicious meal he had just eaten. There was an odd feeling to the air that he didn't like. It made his senses tingle and his instincts were yelling at him to run, but from what, he didn't know.   
  
It was very disconcerting and Sleet wasn't too fond of this new development at all.   
  
Not one bit.   
  
  



	5. Darkness Descends: Part Five

The local madamery was one of the first places that Yaris and Usoff had introduced to Sleet when the trio stumbled into Tawnry as a result of a failed mark. Like the perverted, horny bastards they were, both thieves spent a good bit of their income on whores, when they weren't getting themselves sotted. It was probably the reason Frost considered them idiots. Sleet had to admit that his occasional lover had a valid point.   
  
Still, despite not feeling sexually attracted to females, Sleet liked Lady Crysan's company. She was an intelligent woman, with a calculating gaze, as if she already knew why he was there, but didn't care since he always forked over coin. Business above all else, after all. And because of his lack of desiring actual intercourse, the girls were pretty fond of Sleet too.   
  
And they never asked questions.   
  
Lady Crysan's madamery was one of the finer establishments in town, a large building over three stories high with numerous rooms. She had a classic taste, dark, muted colors with thick drapings for decoration and candles in elegant brass sticks. She had her own personal retinue of security, both for her revenue and her girls, and all of her women were healthy, chirpy creatures. She didn't employ old and bitter crones; they were bad for business.   
  
Usoff and Yaris impatiently preceded Sleet, stepping into the madamery with eager, bright looks. They were immediately greeted by women dressed in an attire that hid nothing and painted faces made up to look more attractive. Sleet didn't see the point in it, but what did he care? He wasn't straight.   
  
A woman instantly latched to his side, looking barely out of puberty. It made him feel just a little sick. He would most definitely not be choosing this one.   
  
“Evening, handsome,” she purred, nails scraping over the front of his tunic. “You want to spend tonight with me?  
  
Fully prepared to charm his way out of the situation, Sleet was spared the effort when Lady Crysan swooped in out of nowhere, bringing with her a cloud of some sultry scent and an aura of sexuality that made even Sleet question himself. “Now Doria, Underwood-san has more... eclectic tastes.” And just the way she said it, with that penetrating grey stare, made Sleet believe that she knew full well just what games he was playing.   
  
“Awww.” Doria pouted. “But he's so cute.”  
  
Yaris leaped to his rescue, slinging his arm around her waist and pulling her close as she released a girlish giggle. “Ignore our picky friend,” he said with a squeeze. “I'll be more than happy to enjoy yer company.” One hand dove into his pocket, producing the funds he and Usoff had acquired.   
  
The whore's eyes practically glowed at the sight of the coin. “So I see,” she purred, her fingers dancing across his chest and cocking one hip to the side. “What'll it be, handsome?”  
  
Lady Crysan's hand moved so fast Sleet hardly saw them move as she plucked the coin out of Yaris' hand with fingernails delicately and brightly painted. “Let's not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?” she asked in her usual polite tone. “Why don't you boys tell me what you want?”  
  
“We're celebrating, you see,” Usoff said as Sleet let them both take the lead, wondering why in the hell he let them talk him into this. He was too tired to put much effort into a pretend performance.  
  
Usoff slung an arm over Sleet's shoulders, adding, “We decided to rub it in his face by giving him a treat.” More coins joined the ones already in the lady's hand with a clink, causing her smile to widen.   
  
Neither of the other thieves noticed it, as blinded as they were by breasts and bare, pale flesh. But Sleet, as a thief given tips by Frost himself, had learned to watch for these types of things.   
  
“Then we shall just have to make the night special, hmm?” Lady Crysan suggested, though the look she shot Sleet was full of knowledge. She swung her body to the side, waist-length hair bouncing with curls. “Anara! Yasuha! Help these gentlemen to more suitable quarters.”  
  
Two women broke free from the surge of painted faces, attaching themselves to Usoff and Yaris with smiles and giggles. “This way,” they chimed in the same moment and it took that long for Sleet to realize that they were twins.   
  
Usoff and Yaris were swept away with hardly a glance over their shoulder, Sleet forgotten. He bit back a sigh of relief.   
  
“You look fatigued, Underwood-san, Lady Crysan said, sidling up beside him and sliding her arm around his elbow. “Perhaps someone a bit more reserved would suit you better tonight?”  
  
Sleet was nothing if not charming. “My Lady, you know me too well.”  
  
Her draping clothes, more expensive than what the others wore judging by their quality, swished across the floor. “You spend your coin well enough,” she replied with just a hint of knowledge to her tone. “I only wish I had what you truly wanted. _Mahei_ , I am a businesswoman first. So I will take it if you no longer have need of it.” The last was accompanied by a throaty laugh.  
  
He was more certain of it now. Lady Crysan knew what he was.  
  
“You always serve me right,” Sleet said.  
  
A twinge on the back of his mind suddenly made him cringe. _If she were male, you would be just as eager, would you not?_  
  
The voice had returned. Great. Sleet decided to staunchly ignore all signs of his diminishing sanity. His head pulsed again, with greater strength this time. Enough to cause him to stumble slightly as bright spots danced in his vision. His falter caught Lady Crysan's attention as his hand went to his forehead, rubbing strongly.   
  
“Underwood-san?”  
  
It felt as if he were hearing her voice through a filter. He stumbled away from her, shoulder crashing into the wall. A hammer struck across his brain, fingers raking down the inside of his skull and sending shocks of pain through his mind.   
  
“Gods...” Sleet moaned, face crinkling with agony. “Why is this happening?”  
  
 _You can hear me now. There's no avoiding it. There's no running. I need you to listen to me, Sleet. I need you to hear me._  
  
Why did it know his name?!  
  
Sleet felt his knees buckle and he slumped. A hand settled on his shoulder worriedly but he shook it off, trying to somehow regain control of himself.   
  
_They're coming! You must be prepared!_  
  
“What?” Sleet gasped, something warm and wet dripping from his nose as his head pulsed again. “What's coming?” He angrily swiped a palm over his upper lip, staring blearily down at his fingers streaked with red.   
  
Blood? He was bleeding?   
  
A great crash and shudder of the building threw Sleet from his feet and he crumpled, head nearly striking the polished wood. He heard Lady Crysan strike the ground with a faint cry but couldn't concentrate on that, detecting the sounds of screaming all around. His head pulsed again.   
  
_... here._  
  
The voice grew fainter and his world dimmed but he didn't lose consciousness. The building shuddered again and Sleet thought he smelled fire, smoke thick and pungent. Sleet scrambled to his feet, hanging on to the wall for balance.   
  
“What's going on?” he demanded, offering an arm to Lady Crysan and pulling her to her feet.   
  
“I don't know,” she said with a shake of her head as a piercing scream filled the air. “My girls!”  
  
Lady Crysan hitched up her skirts and took off down the hall before Sleet could get in another word.   
  
Another blinding pulse of agony raked across his brain and Sleet groaned, curling into himself from the pain. It was splitting, sparking through every nerve until all of a sudden it disappeared, leaving him gasping for breath. Blinking, Sleet straightened, another dull roar floating to his ears.   
  
He stumbled down the hall, stepping through a curtain until he ended up in another corridor, one that appeared to be the living quarters. Sleet froze in horror, eyes taking in the sight of two monsters standing over the bloodied corpses of two barely recognizable whores. Blood stained curved claws, and wings rose like monstrous black shadows from the monsters' shoulders. Coal black eyes swiveled toward Sleet.   
  
“D-demons,” he stammered, taking an unconscious step back.   
  
_'Didja hear 'bout Humain? Heard 'twas attacked by demons.'  
  
'Mayamar's been attacked, too.'_  
  
It hadn't been mere rumor after all.   
  
Sleet took another step backward only to hit something that smelled faintly of sulfur and death. A clawed hand clamped down on his shoulder. Sleet reacted on instinct, ducking down and lashing out with one of his daggers. He felt it bite into flesh, but was already stumbling away, scrabbling to stay on his feet as fear pulsed through his chest.   
  
The sound of a pained growl echoed in the corridor, and blood splashed warmly over Sleet's fingers. He could barely breathe through the terror, the thought that he was going to die pulsing through his mind over and over.   
  
Sleet threw himself to the side, barely avoiding the vicious swipe of a clawed hand. He blindly thrust his other dagger out toward an opponent and the blade found home in a fleshy thigh. Sleet kicked out, sending a demon careening into a far wall.   
  
It struck harshly, body snapping with a sharp crack and, to Sleet's astonishment, metal chains sprouted from the wood out of nowhere, suddenly binding the demon against the wall. They pulled and clanked, squeezing it with unimaginable force. But even if Sleet wanted, he didn't have a chance to gape. One of the two remaining demons was attacking, blood-stained claws outstretched and eager to tear into his flesh.   
  
Sleet charged, ducking under the first heavy-handed swing. He gripped the hilt of his dagger tightly, shoving it up into the demon's belly. It faltered and he crammed the blade deeper, grimacing as hot blood washed over his hand. When his opponent dropped to its knee, Sleet vaulted over the monster's head and sprang toward the doorway, ignoring the other demon's angered cry. He left his dagger behind, unwilling to take the time to retrieve it.   
  
He ended up in another hallway, the pungent odor of burning flesh and wood filtering to his nostrils. A haze of grey smoke was beginning to waft from an unknown location. Sleet wondered where Usoff and Yaris were for a moment. They were like rats, however. He was certain they were safe and probably long gone. It was time to think of himself.   
  
He took off toward another doorway and finally emerged into a back alley, nearly choking on the overwhelming stench of garbage and a great gust of thick, black smoke. Sleet blinked, his eyes stinging from the acrid odor, and stumbled through the alley, faltering on loose stones. The sounds of screaming and explosions were a cacophony of noise that added to the fearful pounding of his heart.   
  
Sleet staggered into the main street, eyes widening in surprise as he received a good look at Tawnry, or what was left of it. The entire town was burning, roofs up in blaze and people running screaming down the street. Everywhere he looked, demons filled the sky in droves, their black wings blocking out the last of the sunset. He didn't think he would be able to make it back home and mourned the loss of all the coin he'd just stolen.   
  
Swallowing thickly, Sleet slipped into the shadows as best he could, determined to flee far from the town. It was time he moved on. He closed his eyes to the horrifying sight of the demons mauling anyone within reach. He was no hero and he didn't have the strength to protect anyone. He could only be responsible for his own life.   
  
A building exploded to his left, sending flaming bits of wood careening in all directions. Sleet threw himself to the ground, covering his head with his hands as the projectiles shot like arrows, slicing through walls and people. Smoke was making it difficult for him to see and once the barrage had subsided, Sleet jerked to his feet and took off running.   
  
He caught a head of brown hair out of the corner of his eye, and Sleet screeched to a halt, whipping back around. Was that Frost?   
  
Sleet peered through the haze, coughing on the thick, grey smoke. It was Frost. He would know that shape anywhere. Sleet quickly pushed through the fleeing throng to where Frost was standing, staring up at the sky with an unreadable expression on his face. It was like he hadn't even noticed the death and destruction swirling around them.   
  
“Frost!” He grabbed the older thief's arm, forcing Frost to turn and look at him. “What's going on?”  
  
Dark eyes didn't seem to recognize him. Frost blinked, ever so slowly, and he didn't speak.   
  
Sleet's gaze darted around to judge the nearness of the demons none in immediate sight, maybe they had a dozen seconds -- before he tried again, giving a firm tug to the arm in his grasp. “Frost!   
  
Something flickered in Frost's gaze, like a spark of light on a cresting wave of the sea, before his free hand shot out and grabbed the front of Sleet's tunic, jerking him forward. “I have caught you, Erebus' other,” Frost rasped in a voice that didn't sound at all like the man that had been Sleet's lover.   
  
Confusion overrode the fear riding on the edge of his senses. “What are you talking about?” Sleet asked. “Frost, we have to get out of here--” He cut off when the fingers around his arm tightened and Sleet winced. It actually hurt, feeling as if the bones in his arm were being ground together.   
  
He tried to tug his way free, eyes widening when he realized he couldn't even budge them. “Let go, bastard!” he demanded. “That hurts.”  
  
“Erebus' other likes the pain,” Frost said with a snide laugh before it abruptly ended. “No!” he snapped hoarsely, blinking and jerking away. He abruptly released his hold on Sleet and clutched at his head. “No! We _agreed_!”  
  
Sleet stumbled backward, his arm throbbing where Frost had gripped him. The other man was acting crazed, he realized. The reminder of Frost's strange behavior hit him with the force of a hammer. What the hell was going on?  
  
“I can convince him!” Frost said, louder this time, sounding as if he were arguing with someone. His voice was loud enough to draw attention and Sleet glanced around them, panicked. The smoke was some cover, but not enough. Images of demons bearing down on them through the haze filled Sleet's mind.   
  
He reached for Frost, perhaps with the intention to shut him up, maybe to quell the confusion. Sleet couldn't be sure. It was all happening so quickly. The fire and the demons, the blood soaking into the ground and the screams tearing the air.   
  
Frost's strange behavior only continued. He struck out and the back of his hand smacked across Sleet's face, stronger than he believed Frost had the ability to hit. Sleet reeled, his head spinning as blood streamed from his lip.   
  
“Sleet, you dumbass!” Frost shouted, for once sounding like himself. “Get out of here!” Sleet's eyes shot to his lover, finding a startling amount of clarity in those dark orbs. That was the Frost he knew, the icy cold bastard he recognized.   
  
He angrily swiped his hand over the blood on his chin, putting a short space between he and the other man. 'What the fuck is going on, Frost?” he demanded. “Why are you acting so weird?”  
  
A part of him knew that he was acting a bit suicidal, asking questions rather than running like a smart person would. But somehow Frost had always crawled beneath his skin and he could never leave well enough alone. He wanted answers.   
  
Frost opened his mouth as if to respond, but a bevy of emotions suddenly flitted across his face and he shook his head, hunching over in abrupt pain. More confused then ever, Sleet could only gape as three winged demons landed behind his lover, menace glinting in their stained claws. Even more surprising was when Frost turned toward them in recognition and not fear.   
  
_Can't you see? He is one of them_! The voice screamed in his mind, causing sharp stabs of pain to skitter across Sleet's brain. It felt as if his head were going to explode.   
  
Sleet gasped and dropped to one knee, his leg buckling beneath him. “Stop talking to me!” he screamed, sounding just a bit crazed himself. “I'm fucking tired of hearing it!”  
  
A crunch of feet on rocks behind him was Sleet's only warning. He whirled, dagger drawn, and quickly blocked the blow aimed for his head. A monster, winged like all the others, was bearing down on him. He ducked under the attack, for the moment grateful for his short stature, fighting through the pain radiating through his head and making spots dance in his eyes. The smell of sulfur and brimstone scorched his nose.   
  
Sleet slashed across the demon's abdomen, not pausing to check the damage as he skirted around the creature and attacked again, slicing through its hamstrings. The demon went down with a howl, flopping around on the ground. Before Sleet could enjoy the victory, two more emerged from the smoky haze as a building crumpled to the ground behind him. The screams of terror were even becoming fewer and fewer.   
  
It was madness.   
  
Swallowing thickly, Sleet clutched his blood-slick dagger tightly, backing away from the approaching menace. He wondered if he would survive this night. A strangled shout echoed behind him and Sleet whirled to see Frost being borne away by a demon three times larger than the ones raiding the town presently.   
  
“Frost!  
  
 _Ignore him! They won't harm their own commander!_  
  
A flash of pain and Sleet growled, his empty hand curling into an angered fist. “What the fuck is going on?”  
  
Burning fire raked across his side and Sleet howled, claws tearing through cloth and skin. Hot blood dripped from the wound. He whirled to attack his adversary through the pain, only to find the demon already crumpling to the ground, hacked in two by another person.   
  
This man was like a dark shadow swirling down on Sleet. Black hair and dark clothes, leather cloak thrown over everything, and a large sword that he wielded effortlessly. One eye was a beautiful stormy grey, but the other was covered by an eye patch. In fact, he looked familiar.   
  
Recognition dawned as Sleet clutched his injured side. “You!” he exclaimed, not knowing a name to call the person who had been Sleet's mark just days ago.   
  
The man swept forward, grabbing Sleet and wrapping fingers around the bruises Frost had left earlier. “Where is it?” he roared in Sleet's face, jerking Sleet toward him.   
  
A sense of deja vu overcame Sleet as he gasped. “The town's burnin' down and you're worried about that crappy thing?”  
  
That one eye hardened to a granite fury. “You're coming with me,” he growled and whirled, giving Sleet a firm tug.   
  
Sleet tumbled, unable to break the hold. “H—hey!” he demanded. “Let me go.”   
  
The stranger didn't answer, suddenly turning and slinging Sleet over his shoulder as though the thief weighed little more than a rucksack. Startled, Sleet dropped his dagger and cursed himself for doing so. He blanched at the sudden change in direction, his stomach churning.   
  
“Put me down, damn it!” he cursed, beating an angry, useless fist on the man's back. “Put me--whoa!! Demon, right behind you!” Sleet cringed, holding his hands over his head as the beast lunged.   
  
The mercenary whirled, swinging his broad sword and neatly cleaving the demon across its chest. The beast gurgled, blood filling its mouth as it toppled backward, innards spilling from the deep slice.   
  
Sleet's captor turned again, heading straight for the road out of Tawnry, easily slicing any other monsters that crossed his path.   
  
“Damn it,” Sleet cursed, slumping in the stranger's hold. If the man could carry him and wield that big-ass sword at the same time, then there was no hope for Sleet to escape.   
  
By pure luck, nothing else attacked them as they fled from the town, Tawnry burning down behind them as buildings crumpled and the screams died down. Sleet closed his eyes against the madness as he hung limply in the stranger's grasp, able to feel blood pulsing from the wound in his side.  
  
Beyond Tawnry, they headed straight for the forest surrounding the town. Sleet raised his head for a brief moment, taking in the sight of the demons flying above the buildings and the flames shooting high. Again he wondered what the hell was going on before they plunged beneath the thick canopy of the forest and away from the enclosing smoke.   
  
Once they were beyond the forest line, the stranger finally paused and slung Sleet from his shoulder. Sleet didn't wait a moment and dug his foot into the ground with the intention of sprinting away. The other man grabbed him quickly however and shoved him against a tree.  
  
“Don't move,” the stranger growled, sheathing his sword with his free hand.   
  
Sleet glared, fully intending to do otherwise, until a wave of dizziness struck and he slumped against the bark, his hands going to the wound at his side. He felt warm and sticky blood. He was definitely going to need a bandage.   
  
His knees buckled but he managed to hold himself upright by using the tree as a prop. Sleet sucked in a deep breath and lifted his head, centering an unsteady gaze on the man who had taken him hostage. Long dark hair and a mercenary braid, the stranger was a good head taller than Sleet with broad, stocky shoulders. An eyepatch covered one eye, scars peeking from beneath the fabric, and the other eye had a tattoo beneath it, a symbol that Sleet didn't recognize.   
  
If it had been any other situation, Sleet would have found the man attractive.   
  
He watched as the other man took his eye off the thief for a second, looking beyond the line of trees and suddenly whistling loud and sharp for some reason that Sleet didn't care to contemplate. He just wanted to get away. When the moment of dizziness passed, Sleet took a deep breath, his eyes darting to the safety and freedom deeper in the forest.   
  
“Don't even think about it,” the man said, moving to stand in front of Sleet. He made an effective blockade.   
  
Sleet twisted his jaw. “Look, you,” he said, one hand pressed to the seeping injury. “I--”  
  
“Raven,” the stranger growled, his hand slamming into the trunk above Sleet's head and closing him in. “Not 'you'. My name is Raven.”  
  
Sleet's eyes rolled. “Then call me Sleet, bastard!” the thief snapped, his patience wearing thin. “I don't know what the hell you think you're doing taking me like that but--”  
  
A hand covered his mouth before he even finished the sentence. “Gods, she didn't say you talked this much,” Raven muttered to himself before directing his words to Sleet. “Where is my necklace?”  
  
He released his hold on Sleet's mouth and promptly shoved his hand against the thief's chest, pinning him against the tree.   
  
“I don't have it,” Sleet hissed angrily, turning his head away from the anger radiating in his direction. Truthfully, he didn't have any clue where the damn thing was. The last thing he knew, he was wearing it before it was strangely replaced by the other he now had. The only person who knew was... “Frost.”  
  
He didn't realize he had said it aloud until Raven's attention perked. “Frost?” he repeated. “What about him?”  
  
Sleet shook his head, causing the dizziness to return with a vengeance. “It was worthless. He wouldn't have kept it.”  
  
“We'll just have to ask him, now won't we?” Raven sneered.   
  
Sleet jerked, trying to break free from the other man's strong grip, but it was futile. “Ask him yourself!”  
  
“I don't think so,” the mercenary responded, his free hand striking out and pressing a palm against Sleet's wound. The thief hissed in pain, a curse on his lips. “You're coming with me and you're in no position to argue.”  
  
“The fuck I am,” Sleet argued, knowing it was a losing battle. But his pride insisted he put up some sort of resistance, even if his head was spinning and his legs were weakening.   
  
Raven's one eye narrowed before he gripped the front of Sleet's shirt and jerked him close until their faces were mere inches apart. “You know something,” he growled in a low, menacing tone. “You were talking to that guy before the demons took him away.”  
  
“What does it matter?” Sleet demanded.   
  
“He's their fucking commander! Or are you just too stupid to see it?” Raven snarled.  
  
Sleet gritted his teeth. “I don't believe you,” he said, through he remembered Frost's strange behavior and words. If he was being honest with himself, he knew it wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility.   
  
The mercenary smirked. “You don't?” he said, with a hint of mockery. He abruptly released Sleet and the thief stumbled backward, but not before fingers flitted briefly across his throat, where Sleet knew Frost's bitemarks were plainly visible. “It wouldn't be because of these, now would it?”  
  
“Shut up!” Sleet snarled, unable to come up with anything better.   
  
The sound of a horse clomping their direction interrupted the small argument between the two. Sleet's attention snapped to the side where he caught sight of a stallion trotting their direction, a bird perched on the saddle. It cawed loudly before taking off, directly toward Raven. The mercenary calmly stood as the bird landed on his shoulder, cawing quietly at him.  
  
It was difficult to tell in the darkness of the forest but Sleet wanted to think that it was a raven. The mercenary's name suddenly made a lot of sense.   
  
“Thanks, Karasu,” Raven murmured, stroking a finger over the bird's crown. “Watch him for me, ne?”  
  
The bird cawed and turned its head in Sleet's direction, beady eyes centered on the thief. It was very unnerving. Especially when the mercenary turned away from him and moved to the horse, rifling through the pack that was slung from the saddle. Even then, the raven still kept its eyes on Sleet.   
  
The thief was in no position to run anyway. He slumped against the tree, finally giving in to the weakness caused by loss of blood. He sucked in deep breaths through the pain radiating in his side and waited for something else to happen. It wasn't long before Raven returned to his side, a roll of bandages and some type of salve in his hand.   
  
He crouched before Sleet, unceremoniously ripping off the brunet's tunic and tossing it to the ground behind him. “Hey!” Sleet grumbled, just to be contrary. “That's my shirt.”  
  
“Shut up,” Raven hissed, his fingers poking and prodding at the three slash marks without preamble.   
  
Sleet hissed, shying away from the pain. “Damn it, that hurts.”  
  
The mercenary didn't respond, promptly slathering some of the strange salve on the slash marks. It was cool and warmed against his skin. Sleet grimaced but allowed Raven to wrap the bandages around his waist so that the injury would be covered. He rose to his feet and tossed a bundle of cloth in Sleet's direction, hitting the thief in the face with it.   
  
“Put that on,” Raven ordered, putting his items back into his saddlebags. “You're no good to me dead.”  
  
Sleet shot him a sour look as he shook out the fabric. It was a dark-colored tunic, far too big for him but it would do. He didn't want to wander around shirtless, though the idea of wearing the man's clothing annoyed him to no end.   
  
And still that damn bird watched him. It had even moved from its master's shoulder to a nearby branch, where it perched and stared with unblinking eyes.   
  
“You won't get any bounty for me,” Sleet announced as he pulled the shirt over his head, watching as Raven bustled around his horse, moving bags and patting the short mane with his palm.  
  
“I didn't expect to.”  
  
“Then let me go,” Sleet argued, using the tree as a brace as he rose to his feet, cradling his injured side. It still hurt like a bitch and he would definitely need to rest before he was capable of defending himself. Not that he had daggers, he remembered mournfully.   
  
“Not going to happen.”  
  
Sleet pursed his lips, eyes darkening with anger. “You bastard,” he seethed, his gaze flickering to the raven before returning to its master. “What the hell do you want with me?”  
  
“I told you already,” Raven said, tightening the straps of the saddle. “You're going to help me find Frost.”  
  
“I don't know where he is!” the thief cried in frustration. “I don't know where that ugly old necklace is either! There's some crazy shit going on around here and I barely survived back there and--”  
  
His back hit the tree harshly, knocking the breath out of him as his head bounced off the bark. Man, this guy was violent. Soon he would have bruises to match the ones Frost had given him.   
  
Raven looked like he had lost all patience, if he'd had any to begin with. “I'd suggest keeping your mouth shut for the rest of the trip.”  
  
“Trip?” Sleet repeated, his voice coming out as a gasp due to the fact he couldn't breathe.   
  
“To Gwartney.”  
  
Even more confused than before, the thief frowned, one hand grasping at Raven's arm in an effort to loosen the man's hold. “Why?”  
  
“You'll find out soon enough.” Raven whistled and the horse came trotting over immediately. Sleet briefly wondered how long he'd had to train it.   
  
He stopped caring the moment Raven hefted him up and slung him over the horse as if he were nothing more than a sack of goods. Sleet scrabbled to grab hold of the saddle horn and situate himself properly before he crashed to the ground, a little uneasy about being so high up. He couldn't even berate Raven properly since the man had promptly climbed up after him, reaching around him for the reins.   
  
“This won't work,” Sleet complained, disliking the man's nearness. “Let me down.”  
  
“No.” Raven snapped the reins and his horse neighed, turning to head deeper in the forest. The mercenary likely planned on cutting through it to get to Gwartney. A wise decision considering the madness left behind in Tawnry.   
  
The thief let out a noise of dissatisfaction. “Argh. You're so damn stubborn.”  
  
Raven didn't grant him the courtesy of a response.   
  
Sleet gave up all thoughts of escape. There really was no point in it. Instead, he tried to get used to the swaying of the horse's movement and fight away the dizziness.   
  
He was the captive of a bounty hunter mercenary, completely broke, with his sometimes lover possibly in league with legions of demons. His day couldn't possibly get any worse.   
  
But at least the voice had gone silent.   
  
Che. Small favor.   
  



	6. The Advent of Courage - Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Advent of Courage (Seven Parts) - Sleet learns the truth behind the attack on Tawnry and his own role in the fate of the world. However, whether or not he accepts his fate remains to be seen.

“You should have brought a damn map,” Sleet cursed as he stared at the derelict collection of houses that someone dared collectively name a town. It didn't look the least bit like the trade city of Gwartney. In fact, if he were to judge by the beaten, half worn away sign that they had passed about three feet back, the tiny village was called Inuit.   
  
Raven ignored him, instead dismounting after Karasu took off from his shoulder, cawing as it flew into the waning sun. The horse nickered as Raven took hold of the reins and began to lead it into the city, leaving Sleet still perched in the saddle.   
  
The thief made a face, his ass and back aching from the constant riding. For the past three days they had done nothing but ride through countryside and forests, only making camp when Raven's horse – which he had learned was named Flurin – needed a rest.   
  
All hopes of escape had been thwarted when Sleet realized that Raven's bird required even less sleep than its master. It watched him with its beady little eyes and would caw loudly if Sleet made the slightest motion that even seemed like escape. The nosy little bastard. The thief wished he had his daggers. A simple flick and that damn bird would be down for the count. He really wanted to choke the arrogant thing.   
  
But for all the hatred he poured into Karasu, he reserved the majority of it for its master. Raven, the damned mercenary who had decided that Sleet was to be his captive. If he wasn't insulting Sleet, then he was silent, ignoring any attempts to be conversational or explain what was going on. After three days, Sleet had learned nothing new about either the mercenary or why he was so damned preoccupied with the cheap necklace.   
  
To make matters worse, somehow they had gotten lost. Instead of arriving in Gwartney, they had wound up in Inuit, three days south of their original destination. Sleet was seriously doubting his captor's ability to tell direction.   
  
They strode past the first line of derelict houses and Sleet was vastly disappointed. He wouldn't even begin to recoup his losses in this rundown place. He would be lucky if he could even find a new dagger. But first and foremost, he needed to get rid of his buffoon of a captor. Luckily, Raven didn't bother to bind his hands or anything. It would be a simple matter to get away. He only needed the opportunity.   
  
He ignored the bird watching him intently from its perch.   
  
After a short line of homes in desperate need of repair, they finally emerged into a wide open space that was likely used as the central area of the town. There was a great hustle and bustle of people within, those selling vegetables and fruits. It was noisy, too with the braying of cattle and the loud calls of the populace. It was the most backwater town he had ever seen. It was vastly disappointing.   
  
But it was also the chance Sleet needed.   
  
He glanced at the mercenary from the corner of his eye and was pleased to notice that the man was eying something else with interest. Foolish mistake. With a snerk, Sleet threw his leg over the side of the horse and slid down, landing without a sound on his feet. He heard the bird caw loudly the moment he did so, but didn't stop to look. Instead, he sprang forward and pushed his way into the crowd.   
  
“Bastard! Get back here!”   
  
Like fuck he was going to listen and actually _stop_.  
  
The cursing followed him as he made his escape. Sleet smirked and sped up a little, shoving between carts and ignoring the startled sounds of annoyance from the people around him. He spared a glance over his shoulder and was pleased to find that Raven was not in sight. Nor his stupid bird either.   
  
Freedom, sweet freedom.   
  
Sleet laughed at his own genius and turned his attention to the path in front of him, only to get a glimpse of nearly pure white fabric before he crashed directly into another person. The two of them collided with a painful smack and items went flying in all directions. Sleet's skull smacked into someone's elbow and shooting pain flared through his head as he ended up sprawled on top of another person.   
  
“Oof!”  
  
“Damn it!”   
  
“Yeow!” Sleet complained as he rubbed at his head, pulling back only to find himself perched on top of a stranger. He cracked open one eye and looked down at the person he had nearly trampled. “You all right?”   
  
The man winced and tried to sit up, though it was difficult with Sleet sitting on his stomach. “I-I think so,” he said, his eyes glancing around before suddenly widening. “Oh no! My scrolls!”   
  
Sleet frowned in apology. “Oops, sorry.” He rubbed the back of his head. “I wasn't looking where I was going-- oomph!”   
  
The man promptly shoved him away, crouching on hands and knees as he tried to gather up the dropped items – not only papers, but writing brushes, ink wells and other random objects. “My master is going to kill me,” he moaned to himself, trying to brush yellowish dust from the scrolls. “This would be the third time...”   
  
Feeling guilty, Sleet righted himself and stooped to help pick up the items. Something about the man made it impossible for him to just walk away. “Don't worry. I think everything's right here,” he said, making sure everything had been gathered. “I'm sure he won't be too bad on you, ne?”   
  
He knew he should be continuing in his mad flight, but he felt kind of bad for knocking the kid down. He might as well take a moment out of his day to help fix what he caused.   
  
The other man looked up at him with worried, bright green eyes. “You just don't know him,” he insisted, shaking his head. “It's going to take forever to finish my studies.”   
  
“You're a mage?” Sleet asked, raising a brow as he handed over the papers he had managed to stack.   
  
As the robed male straightened, Sleet finally got a glance at the markings on his forehead. The circle and lines clearly denoted a sorcerer, though the unfinished design meant he was only an apprentice, which explained the whole master bit.  
  
“I know. Hard to believe, yes?” he said with a derisive chuckle. He rose to his feet, the stuff piled haphazardly in his arms and in peril of crashing to the ground once more. It was kind of amusing.  
  
“Well, maybe,” Sleet admitted with a wince. He couldn't help it, he kind of liked the man. “Again, I didn't mean to knock ya down. I was just in the middle of running.”   
  
The other man laughed again. “It was probably my fault,” he said. “I'm sort of clumsy like that.” He made a face, eyes cutting to the side. “My master tells me that all the time. He says there's no hope for me... oh! I didn't mean to ramble! Never mind all that.”  
  
Sleet chuckled and that was the moment when his stomach chose to growl loudly, reminding him that Raven had been awfully stingy with his rations and he hadn't eaten anything tasty in quite a while. Reddening a bit himself, Sleet patted his empty belly and wondered where he could find something good to steal and eat.   
  
“Say, you wouldn't mind telling me somewhere to eat in this dump, would you?” Sleet asked, jerking a thumb towards what he considered the general direction of the rest of Inuit.   
  
The stranger chuckled. “It's not so bad, once you get used to it. There is an inn that makes a pretty good potato stew.” He tilted his head to the side, suddenly brightening. “I'll treat you to a bowl. How about that?”   
  
Sleet's lips curled into a grin. “I knock you down and you treat me to food? How's that work?” It probably wasn't the wisest idea to stop for a meal, but he reasoned that Raven wouldn't try and grab him in front of an audience. Right? Maybe hiding in a crowd would be better.   
  
The man looked him up and down before promptly dumping half of the stuff in his hands into Sleet's arms, the thief hurriedly moving to catch it all before it dropped to the ground. “You can help me carry everything. Is that a fair trade?”  
  
His hungry stomach was inclined to agree. “Sounds good to me.” The thief shifted the items in his arms so that he could hold out a hand. “The name's Sleet.”  
  
A hand clasped his own, surprisingly strong considering the apprentice's somewhat weak appearance. “Tungsten,” he said with a grin. “Let's go get something to eat.” His stomach growled and he grinned embarrassingly. “It seems I'm hungry as well.”   
  
“Lead the way.”   
  
Sleet fell into step beside Tungsten and the two headed deeper into the crowd. Luckily, the thief saw no sign of Raven or Karasu. He was still home free. Bah, that had been pathetically easy. Some bounty hunter Raven was.   
  
“So, um, Sleet, what brings you to Inuit?” Tungsten asked, carefully juggling the items in his hands as his robe brushed across the ground.   
  
The thief thought back to the last three days. “An accident,” he answered with a snort, not knowing whether he referred to Raven's lack of direction or Raven's kidnapping itself. Either one had not been his own choice.   
  
“Yes, no one really comes here intentionally,” Tungsten murmured thoughtfully, tucking strands of dark red hair behind his ear and swiping a palm over the sweat beading on his forehead. “It's really a dead town.”   
  
The apprentice paused in front of one of the better looking buildings in Inuit, a three-story structure with a painted sign swinging from two short chains. The Waking Bear was proudly written along with a cartoonish drawing of a bear yawning as it rolled out of a bed. Delightful smells wafted from the open windows and Sleet's stomach growled again.   
  
“Follow me,” Tungsten said cheerfully as he headed toward the door.   
  
He didn't manage two steps before his feet tangled up in his robes and he tripped, falling forward. Sleet could only watch as Tungsten tumbled to the ground, his belongings scattering in all directions. White robes were once again wrapped in a cloud of yellow dust as Tungsten grunted from the collision. Around them, people paused to stare for all of a moment before going about their business, some snickering quietly to themselves.   
  
The thief winced. Tungsten wasn't kidding when he said he was clumsy. “You all right?” he called out as the apprentice mage rose to his feet and calmly brushed down his robes before picking up his items once more with a heavy sigh.   
  
“Just fine,” Tungsten replied, far too cheerily for a man who had just faceplanted in plain view of everyone. “Trust me, it happens all the time.”   
  
Sleet blinked and shrugged. “If you say so.” But a smile tugged his lips. It was far too easy to like this kid.   
  
He waited until Tungsten had situated himself before following the other man into the Waking Bear, noticing that Tungsten carefully stepped through the door this time. Shaking his head, Sleet glanced around the small entryway. To their left, a curving staircase headed into the upper floors and to his right was a registration desk. Straight ahead and through another doorway was the tavern from which wonderful smells wafted. Sleet's belly grumbled in appreciation.   
  
“Go ahead and grab us a table,” Tungsten insisted as he turned to Sleet and took his belongings back. “I am just going to take this to my room.”   
  
“You mean you don't live here?” Sleet asked. He had been under the impression, judging from the way the mage spoke, that it was his hometown or something.   
  
“Oh, no!” Tungsten shook his head. “My master and I came here for a quiet place to study for only a month.” He paused with a new, troubled expression. “We're supposed to leave in the next few days but he hasn't come back yet.”   
  
“I see.” Though really, he didn't. What sort of master abandoned his apprentice in a backwater town?   
  
Tungsten made for the staircase with another promise to return, leaving Sleet free to enter the common room where the scent of good food and a billow of warm heat washed over him. He cast a quick glance around the tables, half of them unoccupied, relieved that a sour-faced mercenary wasn't among the patrons.   
  
Sleet chose a corner bathed in shadows, far from the fire and took his seat, idly fingering a dagger he had managed to acquire on the way to the table. It wasn't nearly as good as his old ones, but it would do for now. He didn't like being unprepared and unarmed. It went against his nature.   
  
While he waited for Tungsten to return, he listened to the low murmur of conversation. Local farmers complained over their crops and the apparent low yield this year while a group of hunters lamented the lack of game but no one seemed to worry about demon attacks. It was simply a peaceful, quiet little hamlet. Sleet was ready to leave as soon as possible. But he needed funds and a horse first. He didn't look forward to walking to Gwartney.  
  
In a few moments, a barmaid noticed his presence and sauntered over, looking surprisingly perky considering her occupation. “Hey stranger,” she greeted with a smile. “Haven't seen you around here before. What can I get for you today?”   
  
“Actually,” Sleet began, his own smile and charm rising to the surface. “I'm waiting for someone. I'd hate to order without him.”   
  
“You know my usual, Mio-san,” Tungsten inserted from behind the bar maid, arriving at the perfect moment. He slid into a seat opposite Sleet with a heavy slump. “And we'll have two of the specials.”   
  
Mio smiled at the newcomer. “Afternoon, Tungsten. Who's your friend?”   
  
The thief waved a hand of dismissal. “Just a stranger who happened to knock a mage down today and got a free meal out of it. Bring me a beer?”   
  
“Sure thing. I'll be back in a minute.” The bar maid flounced away, blonde curls swinging. If he weren't so gay, Sleet might have been attracted to her. But alas, not a thing, not even a twitch of interest.   
  
He sighed to himself and turned his attention back to Tungsten. “How long've you been studying magic?” he asked, figuring he might as well make conversation. Besides, he was genuinely interested.   
  
There weren't a lot of mages in the country. Magic was difficult to learn and most people didn't put much stock in it's use anymore. It was a dying art.   
  
Tungsten pursed his lips. “Hmm... seven years?”   
  
Sleet's eyebrows rose. “Seven years?” he repeated. “But you can't be more than... what? Eighteen? Twenty?”   
  
The mage laughed. “Nearly thirty,” he corrected with a hint of rose to his cheeks. “People always say that I look younger than I am.”   
  
Sleet couldn't believe it. Tungsten was actually _older_ than him? “I'll say,” he agreed, shaking his head.   
  
“What about you? Where are you from?”  
  
“An odd question to counter with,” Sleet responded, rubbing the back of his head.   
  
Tungsten shifted. “I can't explain it,” he said slowly, something glinting in his green eyes. “There's something about you. I feel like I've known you before.” He paused, shaking his head. “I'm sorry. I'm rambling, but still... something is familiar. I can't quite place it though.”  
  
Weird. Because Sleet felt oddly comfortable around Tungsten as well, like they'd known each other for years.   
  
Mio returned, sashaying to their table with a grin. “Order's up,” she announced, setting down their drinks and food. Her arrival was enough to break the odd tension.   
  
Digging into his pocket, Tungsten procured some coin and tossed it to the woman. “Thanks, Mio-san.”   
  
She easily caught the payment. “Enjoy.” The bar maid gave a light giggle and wave before walking away from the table, leaving them to their meal.   
  
Sleet eagerly glanced down at the steaming bowl in front of him, chunks of potato and meat floating in a thick, creamy sauce with what looked to be mushrooms. His stomach grumbled appreciatively as he picked up his wooden spoon, fully prepared to dive right in. Damn Raven and his dry, hard jerky. A thief was likely to starve to death in his care.   
  
“Thank you for the meal!” Tungsten proclaimed before picking up his own utensil and scooping the thick stew into his mouth.   
  
The thief blinked at the strange word, trying to recognize it. The use of honorifics, the pre-meal exclamation... he wondered if Tungsten were from Nipon? The man certainly didn't look to be Niponese, but maybe he was one in part? It was possible. In any case, Sleet wasn't about to ask him. Sometimes things like that were delicate topics for people. It was best to be tactful.   
  
Sleet tentatively tried the stew in front of him, brows lifting when he realized just how delicious it was. He wasted no more time with manners and hungrily devoured the flavorful meal, washing it all down with the hearty brew that Mio had brought for him.   
  
“For such a backwater town, they have good food,” Sleet mumbled around a swallow of the frothy beer, fully prepared to signal for another mug.   
  
Tungsten made a sound of agreement, swallowing hurriedly in order to speak. “Are you from much larger cities then?” he asked, a bit of excitement creeping into his tone. “Places like Darthen or Tsurugi maybe?”   
  
“Nah, but I've been there a coupla times. It's not so special when you see it from eyes like mine,” the thief responded, thinking of the few visits he had made to the capital cities. He hadn't really enjoyed himself then, though Peddlers Market, a thinly disguised bazaar for thieves in Darthen, was a good place for information. It was where he had met Usoff and Yaris after leaving home.   
  
“I've always wanted to visit those places,” Tungsten replied with a sigh, one finger teasing the rim of the wine glass he had been sipping from as Mio brought Sleet another mug of beer. “My master's from Tsurugi.”   
  
Figuring this was a good chance as any, Sleet tried to satisfy his curiosity. “So where is this master of yours anyway?” he asked, grabbing a slice of bread from the plate and swiping it through the thick sauce.   
  
“He went to Tawnry,” Tungsten replied, and Sleet nearly choked on the slice of bread. “He said there was a herb he could only get there and didn't need me to accompany him.”   
  
“T-Tawnry?” Sleet repeated, coughing as his food went down the wrong way. He had a flash of screams and fire, of demons flitting like black clouds through the sky.   
  
Tungsten tipped his head to the side. “Is that so strange?”  
  
The thief swallowed thickly, hating that he would be the bearer of bad news. “Tawnry was attacked by demons a few days ago and burned to the ground,” he explained. “There weren't many survivors.” Or at least, Sleet assumed there weren't many. He hadn't exactly stuck around to count bodies.   
  
Tungsten gaped at him, his green eyes carrying a noticeable sheen. Sleet shifted uncomfortably, hoping that the apprentice wasn't going to break down on him. Of course, that was the very moment Tungsten started bawling, thick tears streaking down his face.   
  
“It can't be!” he sobbed, causing Sleet to wince. “B-but... he's dead?”   
  
He patted the air. “I didn't say that,” Sleet retracted, a desperate attempt to be soothing. “He was a strong mage, right? He probably survived and is making his way here right now.” Oh, the lies we weave.   
  
Tungsten sniffled, seeming all the younger for it. “You think so?” he asked hopefully, looking as if he were going to blubber again at any moment.   
  
Sleet felt as if he were treading on very thin ice. “It's possible,” he said carefully.  
  
Wiping at his eyes, Tungsten reached for his wine glass and took a deep drink. “I'll never finish my studies,” he mumbled miserably, lips beginning to pull into a pout.   
  
“I'm sure that's not--”  
  
A hand clamped down on Sleet's shoulder, interrupting his attempt at consolation.   
  
“Found you,” a voice rumbled from behind him as Tungsten's eyes widened in surprise and confusion. Sleet didn't have to look to know who it was. Unfortunately for Raven, he had no intentions of being caught again.   
  
“I'm really sorry about this,” he said to Tungsten before grabbing his beer and throwing it over his shoulder, the amber liquid splashing onto Raven in an instant. He hated the waste of such a fine brew, but it provided the distraction he needed.  
  
Raven cursed, and his grip loosened for all of a half-second, and that was all Sleet needed. He slid out from under Raven's hand and ducked under the table, scrabbling forward and shooting out from beside Tungsten's legs. He darted across the tavern's main room, glancing over his shoulder. Raven was wiping at his face angrily, grey eye fiercely scanning the common room. Tungsten stood up, mouth open in shock.   
  
“Wait!” Tungsten cried to Sleet's fleeing form. “I need to know more about Tawnry!”   
  
“Sorry!” Sleet called out over his shoulder. “Another time maybe!” he added, and darted out the door, diving directly into the late afternoon crowd, though it was nothing compared to the sheer mass of people usually found in Tawnry.   
  
He didn't know Inuit that well, so he didn't know where he could run to. At best, he could find a place to hide until Raven stopped looking for him. Though from the way things appeared, it didn't seem like the mercenary planned on doing so anytime soon. He seemed particularly determined to keep Sleet in his clutches.   
  
_It is a cheap bauble. Have you ever stopped to ask yourself why?_  
  
Sleet gritted his teeth. Great. The voice was back. It was the last thing he needed. A fresh jab of pain attacked his temple, but he fought against it, ducking between two stalls packing up for the day and racing along the edge of the street. People were staring; Sleet couldn't be bothered to care. He didn't know if Raven was behind him or not and didn't stop to check.   
  
He spotted an alley to his left and Sleet ducked into it, gasping as the running tore at the gradually healing wound in his side. He felt the fresh warmth of blood blossoming beneath the bandages and cursed under his breath. One hand clutched the injury and the stitch in his side worsened. If it weren't for the damned wound he wouldn't be having this much trouble.   
  
_The pain will continue so long as you ignore me.  
  
You can't deny your future, Sleet.   
  
Tawnry was only the beginning. He will stop at nothing until everything is laid to waste at his feet. He doesn't care if he rules over a dead land, so long as he rules.   
  
Why can't you see that?_  
  
More pain raked through his skull and bright spots danced before his eyes. Sleet's entire body seized, knees locking up beneath him.   
  
“Get out of my head!” Sleet screamed, his leg buckling as he tilted to the side, crashing into a trash bin. The smell of rotten garbage invaded his nose and he gagged, fighting off the nausea.   
  
Man, his luck had really gone downhill.   
  
Hands suddenly grabbed his shoulders, whirling him around. He stumbled before fighting back, striking out with his arm and clipping his opponent across the cheek. There was a growl of annoyance as Sleet tried to twist out of his captor's – Raven's most likely – hold. His skull still pulsed however, making it difficult to concentrate.   
  
“Let me go—urk!” He choked out before he was slammed against the nearby wall, fingers wrapped like iron clamps around his neck. Every bone in his body gave a shudder of dislike.   
  
“Look, you little shit,” Raven growled, his face coming uncomfortably close. “I won't hesitate to put you in shackles. Stop trying to escape!”   
  
Sleet gasped, his hands moving to Raven's arm and scrabbling uselessly. “I can't help you, dammit! It's just a cheap necklace.”   
  
One grey eye narrowed in anger and Raven's fingers tightened, making it increasingly difficult for the thief to breathe. “You have no idea what that item is worth,” he hissed.   
  
A sense of deja vu overcame him. Frost had said something to that effect on the day they had met when Sleet had stolen an item from him. At the time, Sleet had sold it for a paltry fifteen gold, only to realize later that it was worth probably fifteen times that amount if not more.   
  
Sleet blinked himself out of his reverie. “I don't know where Frost is!” he insisted, squirming in Raven's hold. But he also knew that even if he did, he would never tell Raven. He might have been confused about Frost's behavior and what was really going on, but he would never sell his sometimes lover out to a bounty hunter like Raven.   
  
A flutter in the alley momentarily distracted him as he caught sight of black feathers that landed on Raven's shoulder in the form of Karasu. He cawed in the mercenary's ear, Raven's eye narrowing as he listened. Sleet couldn't help but glare at the bird in distaste.   
  
Seconds later, a form appeared at the mouth of the alley, breathing heavily. “P-put him down,” the man panted, stepping into view. It was Tungsten, covered in sweat from the exertion of running. “L-leave Sleet-san alone.”   
  
The thief blinked in surprise. What the hell was Tungsten doing chasing after him like that? The apprentice was likely to get himself killed going up against someone like Raven.  
  
Raven laughed at the sight. “Or what?” he asked, without a touch of fear.   
  
“It's okay, Tungsten. Really,” Sleet rasped, attempting to assure the apprentice of his health. “I can handle this myself.” He lifted his leg, fully intending to knee Raven in a place that would make him see stars.   
  
The mercenary was fully prepared for that move however, and his free hand grabbed Sleet's knee, squeezing it hard enough that Sleet swore he could feel his joint screaming in agony. The thief would have gasped in pain, but Raven's fingers tightened around his neck and he was short on breath, causing him to choke. Damn that bastard.   
  
“Or I'll set you on fire!” Tungsten said, determination making his gaze fierce. One hand drifted to the pouches dangling from a sash at his waist where he withdrew a small rod, etchings all over the pale wooden surface.   
  
Raven snorted. “I doubt an apprentice is capable of that,” he commented, ignoring the fact that Sleet's hand was beating at his arm, a silent cry for the mercenary to loosen his grip.   
  
Tungsten was not amused. Green eyes narrowed and he rubbed a thumb over a specific marking on the stick in his hand.   
  
Suddenly, a blaze came to life beneath Raven's feet, making him feel as if he were standing on lava. “What the fuck?!” It was enough to surprise him, causing him to jerk back in shock as his cloak caught fire. He abruptly dropped Sleet, beating at the orange flames licking at the thick cotton.   
  
The thief tumbled to the ground, coughing and hacking as he tried to draw breath into his spasming lungs. Tungsten took that chance to dash forward, grabbing Sleet's arm and yanking him to his feet. He pulled the startled thief along with him, the both of them stumbling down the alley.   
  
“Run while you have the chance,” he urged, trying not to trip on his own feet as he forced Sleet to keep his pace despite the fact that the thief was still trying to catch his breath. “My spell won't last for long.”   
  
“Easy for you... to say,” Sleet gasped, surprised at the strength of Tungsten's grip. And his bravery. He barely knew the apprentice, yet the man had risked his life to help him. Why?  
  
Behind them, Raven yanked off his blazing cloak and tossed it to the ground in anger. “Karasu!” he growled, summoning the bird.   
  
It cawed and took off, careening down the alley towards the two fleeing men. Karasu dove down in front of them, fluttering its wings in Tungsten's face. The apprentice shrieked in terror, drawing to an abrupt halt and trying to cover his face with his hands. Sleet collided with Tungsten's back, nearly knocking the both of them to the ground as that damned bird continued to caw and screech loudly.   
  
The delay was enough to provide time for Raven to catch up. The mercenary stormed down the hall, grabbing Sleet with one hand and jerking him backwards and backhanding Tungsten with the other. The apprentice went flying, crashing painfully into a trash can as Raven jerked Sleet's arm behind his back with a painful twist. Karasu was quick to swoop down and scoop Tungsten's casting rod up into his beak from where it had fallen from the apprentice's hand.   
  
Breathing heavily, eye gleaming with annoyance, Raven glared and held out his hand. His fingers enclosed around the rod the moment his bird dropped the item onto his palm and he sneered at the two attempted escapees, Tungsten rubbing the side of his face as he struggled to a sitting position, mourning the dirt on his robes. It was a relief for Sleet to see that his newly acquired friend was uninjured.   
  
“Damn you!” Sleet cursed, struggling in Raven's hold despite the pain shooting up and down his arm. “Leave him out of this.”   
  
“I would if he would quit trying something stupid,” Raven countered, shoving Tungsten's casting rod into his pocket as he slapped a palm over Sleet's mouth. “Now listen to me, you little bastard. After Gwartney, you can do whatever the fuck you want. But I'm taking you there whether you like it or not.”   
  
Sleet glowered, amethyst eyes like furious jewels as he contemplated biting Raven's fingers. Only, he didn't know where they had been and his shoulder was aching from the odd position. Raven was so much larger than him, and it was never more apparent than when he was pulled against the man's chest, completely immobile.   
  
“Do you understand me?” Raven growled angrily, shaking him a little.   
  
The thief made a muffled sound of annoyance, but knew there was no escape. It was either agree or be shackled, and above all things a thief hated shackles. He nodded jerkily, shooting flames of hatred at both man and bird as he did so. With his agreement, Raven slowly lowered him to the ground.   
  
“Good. Then let's go,” the mercenary stated shortly, refusing to relinquish his hold on Sleet's arm as he turned and began to stalk towards the end of the alley and the daylight beyond.   
  
Sleet balked. “What? Now?” he asked in an incredulous tone, digging his heels into the rocky ground. He was still tired and hungry, having looked forward to resting and eating at the Inn. He didn't want to have to camp out again so soon.   
  
“I'm not stupid enough to chance you sneaking off at an Inn,” Raven replied without pausing, giving a harsh jerk on the thief's arm and forcing him to stumble behind him. “Blame it on yourself if you want.” He walked determinedly towards the entrance of the alley.   
  
“Wait!” Tungsten called, having finally hauled himself completely to his feet. “I'm coming with you.”   
  
Raven paused and looked over his shoulder. “This is not a fuckin' holiday,” he snarled, his annoyance with the situation having surpassed its limits. He had the urge to strangle something. “I don't need dead weight.”   
  
The apprentice stood firm however, despite the flash of slight fear that attacked him at the angered look in Raven's eye. “You know something about what happened in Tawnry. I need to find out for the sake of my master,” he declared and then furrowed his brow. “And give me my casting rod back!” he added, having nearly forgotten that the mercenary had it.   
  
“Psh.” Raven snorted, turning back around. He tossed the rod over his shoulder in the apprentice's general direction and moved to exit the alley once more, tightening his grip on Sleet.   
  
“I'm coming whether you like or not,” Tungsten vowed, stooping to scoop up his rod as he trotted after them, his robes dragging on the ground in an annoying fashion. He snatched them up and nearly tripped, his low curse at his clumsiness echoing around the alley.   
  
Raven rolled his eye, feeling a headache pulsing back behind his temples.   
  
“I think you can let go of me now,” Sleet stated firmly, glancing around nervously at the eyes that zeroed in on their presence as they finally stepped out of the alley. He supposed they did look odd, a large mercenary dragging a man who resembled a woman, the both of them being followed by an apprentice mage with dirty robes.   
  
The mercenary ignored his suggestion however, his face a stony mask of silence that had managed to irritate Sleet from the moment he had first met the man.   
  
“Where are you going?” Tungsten huffed, struggling to keep up with Raven's quick, stormy pace. He drew up beside the thief, cutting his eyes in Sleet's direction. “And why won't he let you go?”   
  
Sleet managed a weak smile. “I think he wants my body,” he joked hollowly, more to annoy his mercenary captor than from any true belief in the statement. The current situation was grating on his usual patience, questions piling on top of questions with no answers in sight.  
  
Raven snorted but didn't make any other comment, nor did he respond to Tungsten's question.   
  
Amethyst eyes glared at the back of his head before returning to Tungsten, shifting the topic. “What about all your stuff? Are you sure you want to follow us?”   
  
Determination glowed bright in Tungsten's gaze. “If I've no master, then I've no need to study at the moment, have I?” he stated with force, but Sleet didn't fail to notice that his hands clenched at his sides. Tungsten was a man easily read, his emotions on his sleeves.   
  
Sleet nodded in understanding, stumbling slightly as his feet encountered a rather large rock.  
  
As Raven continued to drag him towards what he guessed were the stables, the thief had the feeling that his life had just gotten inexplicably complicated.   
  
It wasn't fair at all.   
  
*****


	7. The Advent of Courage - Chapter Two

Sleet made a face and shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease the aching in his ass. And it wasn't the good kind of ache either. It was the tense pain of being forced to sit in a saddle for six days straight, clamped around the waist by the iron bar that Raven liked to call an arm. He was sore, every inch of him hovering between being numb and on fire with pain. And the silent bastard had no sympathy.  
  
“Stop squirming,” Raven growled in his ear, his arm tightening around Sleet's waist.  
  
Sleet pursed his lips and sagged, feeling the uncharacteristic urge to whine. “How much further?” he demanded, craning his neck to try and see beyond the hilly plains they were currently crossing.  
  
“If I'm not mistaken, we are actually rather close,” Tungsten answered. He rode nearby, within earshot, something that Raven had allowed him to do.  
  
Yet he wouldn't let Sleet ride with Tungsten, as the thief would prefer.  
  
Sleet shifted in the saddle, wincing as it made sore muscles protest. “Tell me again why you came, Tungsten,” he asked, ignoring Raven's sniff of annoyance. “You barely know me.”  
  
“I want to know more about Tawnry,” Tungsten answered with an edge of fatigue. This wasn't the first time Sleet had demanded an explanation and it probably wouldn't be the last. He was bored. “And I don't think I'll find any answers by poking around in the ashes of it.”  
  
“I told you all that I know,” Sleet said. Again, this had already been repeated several times before. Sleet couldn't decide who was more stubborn, himself or Tungsten.  
  
“Yes, but _he_ hasn't.” Tungsten's eyes found Raven pointedly, as if trying to goad the mercenary into speaking. “I'm convinced there is something more going on. Besides, other than returning home, I've nowhere left to go.”  
  
From in front of Raven, Sleet couldn't see the mercenary's face. But he could feel the subtle stiffening of Raven's body. He was starting to get annoyed, which was never a good sign for Sleet's safety.  
  
“Why were you in Tawnry, Raven-san?” Tungsten asked, his voice pleasant, but holding an undercurrent of suspicion.  
  
Raven's jaw twitched. “That's my business.”  
  
“I still don't see how _your_ business involves _me_ ,” Sleet muttered, perhaps a tad sulky. He was tired and aching and Raven liked to cuff him across the back of the head just for the hell of it. This was the complete opposite of fun.  
  
“You'll find out when we get to Gwartney,” Raven said, and it was all that Raven would ever say about the subject. He'd been stuck on a loop for the past week!  
  
Sleet had never even been to Gwartney. He knew it was a larger city, south of Tawnry, and that it was big on trade. There was an aging temple there, too. But otherwise, Sleet couldn't think of a reason he'd need to go to Gwartney. All the good bounties were further north.  
  
Biting back a sigh, Sleet tried to pretend Raven didn't exist and focused on Tungsten instead. At least the mage was pleasant. “You really have nothing better to do than come with us?”  
  
Tungsten's gaze darted between Sleet and Raven as though hesitating. “I've said it before, Sleet-san..”  
  
“Sleet,” he automatically corrected. “You don't have to use honorifics.”  
  
Tungsten's lips pulled into a faint smile, just a shadow of his normal exuberance. The days of hard riding had definitely taken their toll on the mage. “Very well. As I was saying, there's something familiar about you and something within me tells me I need to stay with you two. At least, as far as Gwartney. I have the feeling I'll find the answers there.”  
  
“Answers?”  
  
“Yes, and maybe a new master as well.” His voice perked up. “I've not completely given up on my goals, even if I did start late.”  
  
Sleet nodded in understanding, only to pause mid-motion because he actually didn't understand. He had never actually met a mage before and had no clue how magecraft operated. He never had a desire to learn, honestly. However, now he was presented with a perfect opportunity and he had nothing better to do for the rest of the ride to Gwartney.  
  
Squirming in the saddle to get comfortable, Sleet ignored the twinge in his side. “Tell me how magic works,” he suggested.  
  
Tungsten blushed, the red flush making him look even more boyish. Sleet still had trouble believing the other man was older than him. Behind Sleet, Raven made a low grunt of annoyance and the thief imagined the mercenary was rolling his eye. Sleet ignored him.  
  
“No one knows, really,” Tungsten said, drawing straighter like he was prepared to recite from some book he'd memorized. “This world is inherently non-magical, you see. Entirely physical.”  
  
Sleet blinked. “Then how do you do magic?”  
  
“It is simply a matter of asking the right deity for help,” Tungsten explained, his entire demeanor brightening. Well, that was one way to bring someone out of a slump.  
  
“Eh?”  
  
Luckily, Tungsten didn't get annoyed. He reached into the pocket of his robe, producing the short rod that Sleet had seen earlier when he called the fire. He showed Sleet the carved ash wood, and the thief leaned over in the saddle to get a better look.  
  
“Each symbol represents one of the fifteen deities and a mage must have the understanding of the deities before they can ask for their help.”  
  
“You have three,” Sleet noticed, taking in the elegantly curved lines and sharp points that looked like some ancient, unfamiliar language. “But I don't know which. I'm not familiar with the gods.”  
  
“And the language is an old one,” Tungsten admitted, glancing fondly at the rod. He ran his fingers over the markings. “Very few people remember the gods these days.” His eyes flickered to Sleet. “You don't believe in them, do you?”  
  
Sleet shrugged. “Should I? I've never seen any proof of their existence myself. If there are gods, they've not done anything to help me.”  
  
Tungsten tilted his head to the side. “Perhaps they would rather you help yourself.”  
  
Raven snorted. “Fool,” he grunted in his usual mannerless fashion. “The gods don't care for our lives or ills. They don't have to live on this mortal plane. They don't have to suffer.”  
  
“I'll admit that I cannot prove that they exist,” Tungsten replied patiently. “Nor can I even begin to understand their ways. That is where faith comes in, I suppose, Raven-san.”  
  
Sleet rolled his eyes. “Ignore him,” he said, trying to steer the conversation back to its original topic. “Tell me what your marks mean instead.”  
  
Tungsten watched Raven for a long moment, something pitying behind his eyes, before he turned his attention to his staff. Letting the reins slump in his lap, he pointed to one marking and then another, explaining each.  
  
“This is for Fafnir, god of Fire. And this one is for Iblion, god of winds. The last is for Asclepius, goddess of the heavens.” A fond smile curled Tungsten's lips. “It is she who I seem to have the most affinity for. She always answers my call, while Iblion seems to despise me and Fafnir is temperamental. He decides things on his own time.”  
  
Absorbing the information, Sleet twisted his jaw in contemplation. “Then, technically, I could be a mage if I wanted?”  
  
“Of course.” He slid the rod back into his pocket, patting the fabric as though to comfort himself with its presence. “All it takes is faith, Sleet-san. And a bit of humility. The gods are always listening.”  
  
 _You would do well to listen to him, Sleet. Clumsy he may be, but Tungsten speaks the truth._  
  
Sleet winced. Wonderful. The voice was back and he'd hardly had the chance to miss the annoying bastard. Closing his eyes, he lifted a hand, rubbing two fingers at his temple. He hoped it would help the pulsing pain that he knew would come.  
  
“Sleet-san?”  
  
He waved off Tungsten's concern. “A headache I can't seem to be rid of,” he said. “Perhaps if I wasn't forced to ride continually for days it would have a chance to go away.”  
  
At that moment, Flurin came a complete halt and Sleet flailed as he grasped for the saddle horn in front of him. Once he was certain he wasn't going to tumble to the ground, he fixed a glare over his shoulder, a curse on his lips.  
  
“Are you _trying_ to kill me?” Sleet growled through clenched teeth.  
  
Raven didn't have the grace to look apologetic. “We're here.”  
  
Here? Sleet whipped back around and took a good look of their surroundings. Raven was correct. They stood at the top of a gentle incline, and at the base of it sprawled a massive city which Sleet assumed to be Gwartney.  
  
The path they were on – an overgrown road – led straight down to the broad, wide double-gates. These were currently thrust open and unguarded, as though there were nothing to fear in the daytime. A thin stream of people was entering and exiting, and Sleet knew that the closer he got, the louder things would become. Cities were always so noisy.  
  
Gwartney was surrounded by a massive wooden fence, huge logs thrust into the ground and carved at the top to be wickedly pointed and intimidating. Sleet wasn't that impressed. There were plenty of handholds and the size of the logs made it possible to skirt around the pointed tips. It was adequate defense from hordes of bandits or attacking armies, but not much against a single, determined thief.  
  
With a click of his tongue, Raven led Flurin down the gentle slope, Tugnsten's steed falling into line beside her.  
  
“Rather lax on security, aren't they?” Sleet commented lightly.  
  
He was already contemplating his escape, catching sight of a bustling marketplace through the gates. A crowded street of vendors and customers was the perfect place to try and escape from Raven.  
  
Busy plotting his escape, Sleet jumped when a hand settled heavily on his thigh, gripping tight enough to bruise. Meaty fingers squeezed, pressing into the tender, sore muscles.  
  
“Ow, damn it!” Sleet swore, grabbing onto the hand and squeezing the wrist. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”  
  
Raven growled into Sleet's ear. “Don't think you can run,” he warned. “And don't you dare steal anything either.”  
  
“I doubt I can even walk now,” Sleet grumbled and the fingers tightened again. “Ow! Okay, you bastard! I won't touch a single purse.”  
  
Tungsten winced. “Raven-san, is that necessary?”  
  
“That doesn't concern you,” Raven retorted, finally removing his grip. Less than two seconds later Karasu settled on Sleet's shoulder, ruffling his feathers.  
  
The claws pricked into Sleet's skin, causing his scowl to deepen. He shrugged, batting at the rodent with wings, but no amount of motion would make it move. Karasu cawed in his ear and Sleet huffed.  
  
He resolved to ignore Karasu and started massaging his thigh, where he could still feel the impression of Raven's fingers. Goddamn bastard.  
  
Tungsten shook his head, taking up his reins as they passed through the wide gates that rose over three men tall. “I can't help but wonder what you did to deserve this, Sleet-san.”  
  
“Me, too,” Sleet muttered. “The bastard just scooped me up and dragged me along all because of some du-- necklace.”  
  
Not pouting, Sleet shifted his attention to Gwartney, which was a damn sight better than trying to ignore Raven. This was no town in the countryside, surrounded entirely by farmland and forests. No, Gwartney was a bustling city with huge buildings and masses of people. And yet Darthen was even larger? Sleet licked his lips. So much gold, so many jewels. He barely kept himself from gaping at the unusual mixture of people.  
  
The red-skinned barbarians of the east, from far beyond the Flores Barrens, were covered in heavy armor and thick hair sprouted from their heads, though it was twisted and bound. They moved in groups of three or four, speaking to each other in their deep accents, words so harsh that Sleet felt as if they were spitting them.  
  
He saw the slant-eyed men of the north, too, tall and lithe, with elegant clothing brushing the dusty ground behind them. Pride kept their chins up, despite the heat that caused sweat to drip from their brows. Following along behind them were slaves, chained and collared, carrying any number of purchases. Likely upper class.  
  
Crammed into the narrow avenues of Gwartney, Sleet and his company were not the only ones astride horses. There were others, most notably the double-chinned scavengers of the mountains, who only ventured down to trade, and then vanished back into the sweeping mists just as quickly as they had appeared.  
  
And yet, that was only a small sampling of the many varied races inhabiting Lieve. Sleet stared, his fingers twitching with the desire to pilfer. There were so many people, so many pockets to plunder. There were purses hanging out, simply for the taking. Sparkling objects of worth, daggers he could acquire for his own use.  
  
Raven's presence at his back and Karasu's weight on his shoulder were the only things that kept him astride Flurin. He didn't fancy escaping only to be tackled and shackled as Raven had warned. And Sleet had no doubt that the mercenary would follow through with his threat.  
  
They headed into the thick of Gwartney, following the main road and passing a tangle of streets and buildings that were a boring blur to Sleet. Most of the businesses were composed of wood, stone difficult to come by on this side of Lieve, and signs hung above the doors to depict their purpose. The residential district must have been on a different side of the city.  
  
Shops gave way to more important buildings such as places to receive identification papers for those who cared about that sort of thing. Along with taxation headquarters, offices for those of importance within Gwartney and a large and low building with bars on all the windows which Sleet was glad to see them pass by without stopping. He had no desire to experience a holding cell within a large city like Gwartney. Escape was much more difficult.  
  
It wasn't until they passed the Bountyman's office that Sleet found himself confused, but breathing a little easier. Raven hadn't been lying when he said he hadn't captured Sleet for a thief's ransom.  
  
“Where are we going?” Tungsten asked, voicing Sleet's very own question.  
  
Raven nudged their horses down a side road. “The temple,” he answered, the horse's hooves kicking up a small billow of dust where they struck the ground.  
  
Confusion wrinkled Sleet's brow. “By Seiryu, why?” he asked, unable to come up with an explanation on his own. “I thought you didn't believe in the gods.”  
  
“I don't,” Raven said curtly. “Now quiet.”  
  
Every instinct told Sleet to ignore Raven and keep chattering on, but he honestly had nothing else to say. Besides, he didn't want to get cuffed across the head again. Between Raven and the unwanted voice, Sleet wasn't sure which made his head hurt more.  
  
They emerged from a small, deserted alley and onto another main road, this one less crowded. It was also much quieter here, as if someone patrolled the streets just to make it so. The distinct lack of noise and suspicious figures was unusual to Sleet. The horse's steps sounded louder, echoing in the empty road.  
  
This same road led to a massive building, one that Sleet assumed was the famed temple of Gwartney, not as old and dilapidated as Sleet expected.  
  
Sprawled across a good many acres, the temple grounds were ringed by a line of leuma trees, planted a fair distance from one another yet so large that their longest branches always brushed. Between the brilliant green leaves etched with silver veins, he caught glimpses of people wandering in short robes, rushing to their business. The temple itself lay beyond, a massive, squat structure contained under an alabaster dome, large enough to cover most of the main compound. Smaller buildings branched off in a spoke pattern, likely residential quarters as well as kitchens and storage houses.  
  
It was, as far as temples go, as ostentatious and large as Sleet would have expected, had he known a temple was their destination in the first place.  
  
Raven entered through the open gates, tipping his head toward the guard. The man waved a hand in greeting.  
  
“Welcome te Tartarus,” he called out in an accent that Sleet didn't recognize, his voice thin and reedy. “May th' Grand Lord Hephaestion watch over ye.”  
  
Tungsten's brows crawled into his hairline. “That man swore to Hephaestion,” he murmured. “I didn't realize that there were those who still worshiped the old gods.”  
  
“There are always those that cling to the old ways,” Raven muttered, a note of disdain in his voice. He refused to say anything else, however, as he steered them around the side of the large buildings, heading toward a stable.  
  
Sleet only knew they were such because of the smell, otherwise from the outside he couldn't be sure. It looked too nice, too elegant, to be a place that housed horses and other beasts of burden.  
  
As they neared the open doors, bits of hay spilling out into the beaten path, a stable boy stepped out of a smaller doorway. Gap-toothed and straw-headed, the child was still better dressed than any stable-minder Sleet had ever seen before. Not that he really frequented stables. He didn't much like horses and they didn't much like him. He preferred to skulk about on quiet tiptoe, as a proper thief would.  
  
It was dealing with horses that got Usoff and Yaris into the fine blunder with their bungled spice trade mess.  
  
“Welcome back, Mr. Tuesti,” the child greeted with a wide smile, further surprising Sleet by revealing that he was actually a _she_.  
  
The girl took the reins as Raven drew to a halt, fingers of her free hand gently rubbing through Flurin's mane. “There's a good gel,” she cooed softly to the mare, who nickered in greeting.  
  
Raven dismounted, Sleet scrambling down after him at a much slower pace. His wound still ached and he was loathe to pull on it any more than necessary. Karasu cawed in his ear at the awkward movements, claws pricking into Sleet's shoulder even through the fabric of Raven's shirt.  
  
Large, calloused hands patted Flurin gently on the head. “She needs a rubdown,” Raven instructed, a note of fondness in his tone. “We've been riding hard since Inuit.”  
  
“Yes, sir.” The stable girl's dark eyes flickered towards Tungsten, who was dismounting from his own steed with great care so as not to fall. “And the other'un, too?”  
  
Though he looked as though he would rather forget Tungsten's presence, Raven glanced once at him. “Yes, the same.”  
  
She nodded. “Understood.” The stable girl reached for the reins of Tungsten's mount as well. “Your horses 'er in good hands.”  
  
“I know.” Raven grabbed his saddle bags from Flurin's saddle and slung them over his shoulder. With his free hand he reached out, clamping fingers around the thief's upper arm before Sleet could protest.  
  
“Stay with Flurin,” Raven ordered and Karasu took flight, only to land on Flurin's head. The mare didn't seem to mind too terribly, her ears flicking as though used to the raven's weight.  
  
Sleet gave a token tug to the grip on his arm. “I've nowhere to go,” he muttered.  
  
“Come on,” Raven said with a sharp jerk of his arm. “And you, too, if you insist on following,” he threw over his shoulder at the mage.  
  
Tungsten scrambled to grab his bags and throw them over his shoulder before stumbling, threatening to spill his belongings everywhere.  
  
“Do you have to be so damned rough?” Sleet demanded, staggering after Raven. He hissed as the jerky movement tugged on his half-healed wound, a few trickles of blood seeping.  
  
“I'm not chasing you again,” Raven retorted as they went into the stable, out of the heat of the sun and into the smell of horses and fresh hay.  
  
There was a door on the far end of the stable and this was where Raven took them, pushing it open easily. Beyond it was a short, undecorated hallway which led them into a kitchen, a wash of heat striking them full in the face. On the wings of the warmth was the tantalizing scent of baking and cooking.  
  
There were few workers within, one standing over a stew pot and stirring the globulous liquid with one hand while the other wiped at a sweaty brow. Another cook was taking several perfectly golden-brown pies out of the oven.  
  
Cherry and strawberry... one was even apple; he could tell by their smell alone. A thief was supposed to be a master of all five senses, after all.  
  
Sleet's stomach grumbled. He was so hungry and they smelled delicious. Not to mention the full flavor of the stew that was floating in his direction, thick and hearty. Venison for sure, and if it was a proper stew, it had potatoes and carrots and celery, too. His mouth watered.  
  
Wanting to linger, Sleet dug his heels into the ground, twisting toward the food. The cooks paused to glance at their visitors before returning to the food.  
  
Raven jerked on Sleet's arm, causing him to stumble . “I'm hungry,” Sleet complained. A week of trail rations and dried jerky did not satisfy.  
  
“You'll eat later.”  
  
“I must admit,” Tungsten said, licking his lips as he stared at the fresh pies, “I'm quite famished myself.”  
  
Raven ignored him, continuing through the kitchen without pause and dragging Sleet the last few strides. They passed a trio of maids, who giggled in Raven's wake, lifting hands to greet him. If they thought it was odd that Raven was dragging someone by the arm, their expressions didnt show it.  
  
“Good afternoon, Mr. Tuesti!” the trio trilled in tandem.  
  
Raven's eye narrowed. He hurried out in the hall, leaving poor Tungsten behind. In the same rough manner as he held Sleet, Raven's hand snatched out and he grabbed a passing servant. The poor boy nearly dropped the stacks of rolled parchment he carried, letting out a startled squeak.  
  
Sleet took small comfort in not being the only one treated so rudely.  
  
“Where's Alaris?” Raven demanded, his voice a thunder that echoed down the long hall, otherwise devoid of servants.  
  
The boy swallowed thickly. “Her holiness?” he repeated. “Umm... I think she's in the library again.” His eyes darted left and right. “At least, she was when I left her there.”  
  
“Get her,” Raven demanded. “Tell her to come to the drawing room.”  
  
“Aye, sir,” the boy said quickly, and scurried away the moment he was released.  
  
Behind them, Tungsten spilled out of the kitchen and observed Raven's behavior with a shake of his head. “Honestly, you have no manners,” the mage chastised as he hurried to catch up to Raven who was already stalking down the corridor,. “Would it kill you to--” The rebuke ended as he set first one and then the other foot on his robe, promptly tripping and crashing to the ground.  
  
His bag skittered from his grasp, dumping a few odds and ends onto the floor. A rolled up pair of twice-darned socks. A small rock of interesting coloration. A few hand-sized journals and brushes. Pieces of dried herbs. Really, it was quite a mess in there.  
  
Sleet twisted around to see the mage. “Tungsten?”  
  
“I'm fine,” Tungsten said breathlessly, already picking himself up and crouching to gather his scattered belongings. He was rather quick about it and was on his feet in a manner of seconds, hurrying along after them. “It happens--”  
  
“--all the time, I know,” Sleet finished for him, a trace of amusement managing to tug at his lips. “You should consider hemming your robes.”  
  
“That is what my master used to say,” Tungsten said, with a defeated sigh.  
  
Sleet's smile widened and he shook his head. Weird or not, he supposed he could stand Tungsten's company. The mage was better than Raven at any rate.  
  
Sleet shifted his attention back to their surroundings, taking note of the path Raven was taking. After all, a thief who didn't know the way in was a thief who didn't know the way back out.  
  
The halls were rather plain, lit by torches in regular intervals to break up the monotony. Along the walls, at the highest point before they joined with the ceiling, there were strange, faded lines of odd symbols and words. These were on both sides and Sleet had the strangest impression that it was a protection spell of some sort.  
  
It felt strange for Sleet to be in a temple. There weren't any in good repair these days, since few believed in the gods and the old ways. Other than Tartarus, there was another one beyond Humain. A third in Nipon, he was certain. And there were rumors of a fourth beyond Darthen, but Sleet couldn't be sure, having never been past the city himself. Not to mention that the alibinos were notoriously secretive. If they had any temples to their patron deities, they weren't telling anyone.  
  
They arrived at their destination, a nondescript door in the middle of an empty hallway. There were other doors as well, identical in appearance, but Raven seemed certain that this was the right one. He pushed it open, gestured for Tungsten to enter ahead of him, and then pulled Sleet inside.  
  
It appeared to be nothing more than a sitting room. A hearth covered one wall, no fire presently burning, and a window on the far side was covered by thick, dark curtains. One chair was positioned below the window, and a longer seat sat by a bookshelf, each shelf packed full of colorful tomes. A torchiere hung from the ceiling, sending low flickers of light across the room.  
  
Inside, Raven shut the door and then plunked Sleet down in a chair by force.  
  
“You can let me go now,” Sleet muttered, giving a token tug to his arm.  
  
“I'm not chasing you again.”  
  
“Where could I go?” Sleet demanded, fidgeting. It wasn't in a thief's nature to abide being trapped for long. “You've got me in the middle of a fucking temple!”  
  
Setting his bags down on the longer seat and lowering himself into it, Tungsten watched the two of them continue. “Is it absolutely necessary to keep hold of him?”  
  
“Yes,” Raven said curtly, and as if to prove his point, he tightened his grip on Sleet.  
  
Sleet winced, but was saved from further conversation when the door suddenly opened, attracting their attention.  
  
“Tell the magistrate that I will see him tomorrow if the matter is that urgent,” a woman was saying, the door open enough that Sleet could see a pale hand resting on the knob. “Right now I have something more pressing to handle.”  
  
“But--”  
  
There was a moment of silence.  
  
Someone sighed and shuffled their feet. “I'll carry the message.”  
  
The door squeaked as it slid open further and Sleet received his first look of the woman. She was tall, Sleet noticed that first, nearly Raven's height and definitely more so than Tungsten and Sleet. Her brown hair, the color of willow bark, was drawn into a high ponytail that draped to her shoulders.  
  
“See that you do,” the woman said, coming further into the room, closing the door behind her.  
  
Sharp blue eyes, the same chilling blue as ice, yet somehow not quite as emotionless, glanced over the room, flicking over Tungsten and Sleet both, only to settle immediately on Raven. A look of exasperation crossed the woman's face, which was beginning to gain lines of age and stress. Otherwise, she would have appeared quite young.  
  
“Did you drag him here, Raven?” she demanded, one hand settling on her hip.  
  
Raven shrugged. “He didn't want to come.”  
  
She exhaled audibly, free hand rising to rub at a brow already furrowed. “I didn't mean for you to force them. It was to be their choice.”  
  
“I brought the damn thief. What more do you want?”  
  
She tossed him another exasperated look, but didn't seem to want to press the issue. “Very well,” she sighed, the length of her gown brushing the floor as she took a few steps. “You can go. I'll take it from here.”  
  
Raven hesitated, though his grip loosened. “He'll run.”  
  
“I expect so.” She pursed her lips into a frown. “Especially since I gather you didn't explain anything.”  
  
Oh, she knew Raven too well.  
  
“Not a damn thing,” Sleet said irritably, glaring at the back of Raven's head.  
  
The woman turned her attention to Sleet and tried to smile kindly. “I thought so.”  
  
She stepped in front of him, looking down from her greater height to meet his eyes. “Hear me out, Mr. Underwood. Afterward, if you no longer care, you are free to leave.” Urgency echoed in her tone. “I only ask that you hear what I have to say.”  
  
Curiosity had always been the downfall of a thief.  
  


* * *


	8. The Advent of Courage - Chapter Three

Confusion and curiosity flooded through Sleet, a very dangerous combination for a thief. And though something in his instinct told him that now was his chance to flee, another part urged him to say. Instead of shouting his anger and storming from the room, what fell from his lips was something else entirely.  
  
“How do you know my name?” he asked, though some part of him had meant to say, 'I'm getting the hell out of here while I can.' Sometimes, it seemed, his mouth had a mind of its own.  
  
The woman inclined her head. “I think you would be surprised by what I know,” she said before directing her attention to Tungsten. “And greetings to you, Mr. Vermillion. I expected to find you in Yokoto, so this is a pleasant surprise.”  
  
Tungsten blinked. “You know me as well?”  
  
“Of course.” She tossed an exasperated look over her shoulder at Raven. “For Hephaestion's sake, Raven, release him already. We'll be fine.”  
  
Raven shrugged and snatched his hand back. “Suit yourself,” he snarled. “But if he runs, I'm not following him.”  
  
With that, the mercenary stormed from the room, boots leaving heavy footfalls in his path. He slammed the door behind him, rocking a badly done painting from its perch and causing a display of books to topple over.  
  
“H-he's rather...” Tungsten trailed off, words failing him. He was already moving to right the pile of tomes, muttering under his breath.  
  
“Yes, he is,” the woman agreed and gestured toward a chair with a hand that was perfectly smooth and uncalloused, as though she'd never worked a hard day.  
  
“Have a seat please, Mr. Vermillion, and I promise, I will answer all your questions to the best of my ability.”  
  
Sleet rubbed at his arm where he swore he could still feel the imprints of the mercenary's fingers. “What am I doing here?” he asked.  
  
“First, let me introduce myself.” One hand moved to her chest, pressing against her pale and bared collarbone. “I am Alaris Callen, the head priestess of this temple. And it is because of me that you were brought here.”  
  
Tungsten, who had finished picking up the stack, found himself a seat. “Pleased to meet you,” he said politely.  
  
“Unfortunately, I'm not sure I can say the same,” Sleet remarked dryly, since he had been given no choice in the matter. “However, given happier circumstances, I'm sure I would have been happy to make your acquaintance.”  
  
Her lips, unexpectedly unpainted, kept their amused smile. “Understandable to be sure. Shall I explain why I called you here?”  
  
Tungsten sat forward eagerly, the chair creaking beneath him. “Yes, please do.”  
  
Alaris moved to stand by the window, parting the curtains briefly. Her gaze fell on the green courtyard visible through the thin glass, trees and vegetation swaying in a light breeze. The sun was just beginning to creep toward the horizon.  
  
“There is going to be a war,” she said, fingers closing around the thick of the curtain. “A war unlike anything this country has seen in a millenia and unfortunately for the three of us, there is no choice but to be involved in it.”  
  
A stunned silence swept through the room. War? Was Alaris mad? Sleet had heard nothing of it. Or at least, so he tried to convince himself. The memory of Tawnry burning and rumors of hordes of creatures attacking, however, stood prevalent in his mind, reminding him that something was afoot. War was only the worst of possibilities.  
  
“W-what are you talking about?” Tungsten stuttered, hands clasped firmly on his knees.  
  
“Does this have to do with the demons?” Sleet added, feeling Tungsten's eyes on him the second the words passed his lips, but he ignored the questioning gaze.  
  
Alaris nodded slowly. “Yes. Though they are merely soulless beings who respond only to their master's commands.”  
  
Tungsten gripped his casting rod again, fingers rubbing over and over the etched markings as though it would provide some comfort. “I'm sorry. I'm really confused. Is there any way you can start from the beginning?”  
  
“Unfortunately, I can't,” Alaris answered. She settled back into her chair, crossing one leg daintily over the other. “I don't know the whole story, but I can tell you what I do know.”  
  
Sleet inwardly scoffed, but kept his skepticism to himself. For now.  
  
“I know you have heard the stories of the old gods, the ones we have purposefully ignored, for one reason for another,” Alaris began, her voice taking on a lyrical quality, “There is one who seeks to take control of all the others and has already succeeded in destroying five of them.”  
  
“What?” Tungsten paled. “But... you can't kill a god.”  
  
“No, a mortal cannot. But another deity can,” Alaris said firmly. “It is not easy and the results unleash a fiercely destructive outpouring of magic. And yet, that is not all we have to worry about.”  
  
It felt as if something were starting to grip Sleet within his chest the more Alaris revealed. A sense of utter truth about his impeding destiny, and Sleet had no stomach for talks of fate.  
  
“What else is there?” Tungsten prompted.  
  
 _You haven't realized it yourself, yet?_ The voice returned, if it had even left at all, bothering Sleet with another flash of bitter pain. _That there is more to this than simple coincidence?_  
  
Sleet winced, holding his aching head with one hand as if to keep it together. “Shut up,” he hissed under his breath. Though he had spoken quietly, he attracted Alaris' attention anyway.  
  
Her blue eyes pinned him down. “You can hear him, can't you?” She sounded excited, pleased even, as if she had simply been waiting for that truth to emerge.  
  
“Hear who?” Sleet gritted out, not bothering with politeness. It was impossible with the pain striking at his skull.  
  
Alaris rose to her feet. “Your anima.”  
  
Confusion added to the painful twist of emotions raking through him. “My what?”  
  
 _She's talking about me, Sleet. And I think it is finally time that you listened._  
  
“Goddamn it, would you shut up!” he snarled, not realizing he had shouted until his voice echoed back to his ears, sounding crazed. His teeth were clenched so strongly that his jaw began to ache, pulsing in time to his rapidly beating heart.  
  
There was a footstep and then a finger pressed to his forehead, cool in contrast to the heat that felt as if it was blasting through his body. The pain vanished, washed away in the wake of an effervescent rush throughout his system. The voice, along with the agony, disappeared to the furthest reaches of his mind where he could hear only echoes. Sleet sighed in relief.  
  
“It only hurts because you are trying to block him,” Alaris chastised, removing her fingers from his forehead.  
  
“Block who?” Sleet demanded. “Stop being so goddamned cryptic.”  
  
Across the room, Tungsten gave a huff of disapproval. “Sleet--”  
  
But the shaking of Alaris' head cut off his comments. She closed her eyes, making a faint gesture with her hand, though Sleet hadn't the foggiest idea why.  
  
“I suppose it is better if you simply see for yourself.”  
  
The air behind her shimmered, like a summer mirage caused by intense heat. He felt the blast of power like a strong wind, buffeting his face and clothes, and then a man appeared next to Alaris. Popped into sudden existence with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the face.  
  
He was the same height as the priestess, eyes the color of the sky and long, grey hair. His face was clothed in a beard and mustache the same silver shade as his hair, and he wore robes similar to Alaris. Aged fingers clutched a long staff, the pole striking against the ground with a defining clang. At the top, a dragon's claw clasped a globe the same endless color as his eyes.  
  
Sleet blinked, his jaw dropping in disbelief. “W-what kind of trick is this?” he demanded, inching away from the apparition. It had to be a ghost or spirit or something. Some priestess illusion.  
  
The look in the man's eyes made something inside of him tremble. Made him feel mortal, his life a tiny wisp, a flame easily snuffed out. Though tall and thin, the old man seemed everything but frail, as though one finger held more strength than Sleet's entire body. He could break Sleet with a snap of his fingers, surely.  
  
“There is no trick, Mr. Underwood, Erebus' other,” the elderly man said, his voice carrying a rough edge. “I am Hephaestion, and I am Alaris' anima.”  
  
Tungsten was grasping for words. “It can't be,” he breathed. “You can't be the god of life! That's impossible!”  
  
The old man inclined his head. “Nevertheless, I am and I am here, in my mortal form. My other would take up far too much space and alarm you.”  
  
Sleet closed his eyes, thinking that once he opened them, the madness would have vanished. It didn't work so well for the destruction of Tawnry, and it didn't work so well now. But he kept trying anyway.  
  
“I-I don't...” Sleet stuttered, everything he thought impossible suddenly proving to be real. As though someone had discovered the sky wasn't blue at all, or that snow fell in the desert.  
  
The evidence was there in front of him, in the power emanating from the man like the smell of freshly baked bread or the heat of the ground on a particularly warm summer day. The sense of wisdom in his gaze, as if there were centuries hidden behind those eyes if Sleet dared look deep enough. It made him weak in the knees and somehow, he just knew that the old man before him was a god, a deity in his own right.  
  
Alaris seemed to find their reaction amusing, and though they were stunned, she continued explaining anyway, “I am an animus,” she said, exchanging glances with Hephastion. “Chosen as such. The gods cannot directly act upon the mortal plane. They must be invited, such as when working magic. However, Balaam has broken these rules and now the gods come to us for help.”  
  
“Us?” Tungsten repeated. His foot tapped continuously against the floor, like a nervous twitch.  
  
“Yes,” Hephaestion confirmed. “Both you and Mr. Underwood are also animus.”  
  
Predictably, the mage was ecstatic about the information. His eyes widened, even as embarrassment colored his cheeks. Sleet, however, was decidedly less than thrilled.  
  
He rose to his feet, boots slapping against the paneled wood. “Impossible,” he said, hands falling at his sides as the sudden urge to escape threaded through his veins, making his toes tingle.  
  
 _Denying something because you do not want to believe it does not make it any less true._  
  
Sleet firmed his jaw. “I didn't ask for this,” he declared, ignoring the looks the others were sending his way.  
  
 _Men often do not._ No regret was in that inner tone, only a hint of apology. _They cannot see beyond the extent of their evanescent life._  
  
On the edge of the thief's vision, Hephaestion shifted, robes making a sound that was all too loud to Sleet's irrational state of mind. “You were chosen,” he explained. “It is your destiny.”  
  
“Fuck destiny!” Sleet snarled without a moment's pause, slicing a hand through the air. His free fingers clenched into a fist. “And fuck fate. I don't do either of them. I make my own damn choices!”  
  
 _You will run then? Run from the battle?_ Disappointment flooded through Sleet's senses as though the emotion had been his own. But it wasn't. Because he had nothing to be disappointed about.  
  
“I never said I wanted to be a hero,” Sleet replied, to the voice in his head, but also aloud, to Alaris and Hephaestion, before either of them got any ideas. “I don't want to fight in some war I have no stake in.”  
  
Alaris' eyes softened as she watched him. “Even if it swallows this entire country whole?” she asked. “Where will you run or hide? There is nowhere, Mr. Underwood.”  
  
She had no more right than the damn voice to demand anything of him.  
  
“Look,” Sleet hissed, letting the anger cultivate. It was all the defense he had. “Your mercenary dragged me here without my permission or any explanation. I didn't ask to come here and I certainly don't owe you anything.”  
  
Sleet didn't want this. Not her tales, not her magic tricks. Not her gods appearing out of goddamn thin air and scaring the shit out of him. If he'd wanted to be a hero, he would have picked a different profession.  
  
Sleet jerked out of his seat and stalked toward the door. He had better things to do than sit and listen to Alaris' lectures or the voice in his head. He wanted to lose his mind on his own time, not with these strangers eying him like he was their newest savior.  
  
“Sleet!” Tungsten was calling him, sounding upset, like Sleet's behavior was his fault or something.  
  
The thief jerked a dismissing hand in Tungsten's direction and flung open the door, stepping out into the hall. It was mercifully empty of servants and other priests, though someone to kindly point out a direction for him to head would have been useful.  
  
Steps followed his exit. He had anticipated them and therefore ignored them. He hadn't, however, prepared for the hand to flash out and snatch his arm, fingers pressing over the bruises Raven left behind and making Sleet gasp.  
  
“Mr. Underwood,” Alaris said, grinding his escape to a halt, unnaturally strong for a woman. “I've prepared a room for you. Please, stay the night and think about it.”  
  
He had every intention of jerking free from her hold and storming away, continuing in his fit of anger. But the look in her eyes was so damn earnest that Sleet wilted, feeling every bit the child throwing a tantrum. He squared his jaw and slipped gently from her fingers.  
  
“Fine,” he ground out, doing his best not to spit the words at her. “But I'm not making any promises.”  
  
Relief visibly streaked across her shoulders, easing the tightness that had settled there. “I understand.” Pulling her hand back, she gestured down the corridor. “Down the hall and to the left. It's the third door on the left. I'll send someone to see if you need anything.”  
  
Sleet inclined his head and kept going, paying little attention to Alaris as she watched his departure before slipping back into the room. Likely to bore Tungsten with more history lessons and tales of the gods – the gods. Imagine such nonsense. And yet, it had stood right there in front of Sleet, with its ageless eyes and its accusations.  
  
He felt a cold chill race up his spine. This was big, too big for a simple thief like him. He wanted nothing to do with it. Nothing but to leave the city, venture out, maybe even try to find Frost and ask him what the bloody hell was happening.  
  
Following Alaris' directions was easy and he found his room on the first try, opening an unlocked door into modest quarters. A bed was shoved against one wall just behind the door, complete with matching nightstand. A wooden chair perched near the window, which on second glance actually led to a balcony, and bookshelves lined the other walls.  
  
He flicked the flimsy lock which any thief worth his salt would be able to break in a matter of moments, and stepped inside, his feet sinking into plush carpet. Now that was a first. It completely muffled his steps. He could grow to like the stuff. Thief instincts and all that.  
  
Sleet puttered around in the room, looking for anything of interest. The dresser drawers were filled with fabric, the books historical and boring, and the bed too soft for his liking. But it would do. He wasn't planning on remaining for an extended period of time anyway.  
  
His wandering carried him over to the window. He parted the thick curtain and stepped into the dying rays of sunlight. The balcony wasn't that wide, just enough for two men to lay abreast. He clambered onto it anyway, hoping it wouldn't crumble beneath him.  
  
Glad for the privacy and the soft quiet of the scenery, Sleet stretched out, laying back to watch the sky fade to night. He folded his arms behind his head. There was a welcome peace in the back of his head. The voice, it seemed, had grown tired of goading him.  
  
Stars came into view one by one and for the first time, the tension in Sleet's body found room to lessen. It didn't completely leave, considering the thoughts running rampant through his mind. But he wasn't standing at the tip of his toes, peering around the corners for foes either. He finally had time to organize his thoughts, jumbled and shoved into the back of his head in a messy pile.  
  
He had a voice in his head. That he was grudgingly coming to accept. The possibility that this voice was a demi-deity with powers beyond his imagining was more difficult to swallow.  
  
Frost was gone and/or missing, aligned with the so-called evil demons if Raven's words were to be believed. Or, more accurately, the leader of the demons currently executing raids on whatever towns struck their fancy.  
  
Sleet could concede that his lov-- fri-- fellow thief had been acting oddly before Tawnry went up in flames. But as for being the commander of a troupe of demons? He was doubtful. Frost barely tolerated other humans. Why would he bother with less intelligent and useful creatures?  
  
A noise of disgruntlement more with the situation than any person in particular escaped his lips. Rough plans began to take form in the back of his mind, most notably leaving Gwartney. Not that he had a destination in mind. Tungsten, he was sure, could handle himself. Just so long as he was away from Alaris. And Raven.  
  
Especially Raven.  
  
Just the thought of the gruff mercenary had him scowling at the stars. Raven was even more arrogant than Frost, with nowhere near the charm. Sleet would be glad for the distance. He did wonder, however, why Raven was so interested in Frost. And why Raven seemed so bent on reclaiming his cheap necklace.  
  
Sleet thought of his own necklace and Frost's strange behavior. He wondered just what the item he had helped Frost steal was, what purpose or value it held. Frost's strange words joined the cacophonous noise in Sleet's head, drowning out all ability to effectively understand anything. It was all a pit of confusion.  
  
His thoughts were growing circuitous. Letting out an annoyed puff of air, Sleet surged to a sitting position and contemplated his next move. Scraping a hand over his head and a subtle whiff informed him that he really could use a bath. After all the hard riding with little rest, it sounded like a luxury for the wealthy. And he wanted to indulge.  
  
Rolling to his feet in one smooth motion, Sleet slipped back into his room. Prowling through the drawers produced clothing that was close enough to his size. As well as a towel and a basket of necessary bath accessories. Tossing the thick band of cloth over his shoulder and tucking the woven wood under one arm, he opened his door and stepped into the corridor. His luck prevailed and he managed to snag a passing servant.  
  
“The baths?” he questioned in the most pleasant voice he could muster.  
  
With a tip of his head (did everyone bow here?) the boy pointed down the hall. “Round the corner, Mr. Underwood,” he explained softly, a hint of reverence in his tone that instantly grated on his nerves. “Last double door on the hall.”  
  
“Thank you.” Releasing the boy's arm, he turned to follow the directions, already anticipating a warm soak.  
  
The servant, however, lingered. “I-if I may,” he started. “I really a-appreciate the sacrifice--”  
  
“Save it,” Sleet muttered, showing the boy his back and striding down the corridor with a flippant wave of one wrist. “I'm no hero.”  
  
He ignored the rest of the boy's stutters and continued down the hall, annoyed mood returning with a few simple words. How many more times was he going to have to repeat the same nonsense? And just what had Alaris told her hired hands and other “holy” people about him?  
  
Sleet found the baths with ease, luckily not running into any other servants. The outer rooms were thankfully empty and he quickly stripped down. As he peeled off his tunic, a sting in his side reminded him of the wound that had yet to fully heal.  
  
Blood clung to the bandages and he pulled them away, hissing at the resulting sting. The wound looked ugly and red, and he wondered if it was getting infected. Perhaps a dunk in the hot water would give it a good clean. It was better than nothing, he supposed.  
  
Dropping the bloodied bandages into a basket for trash, he added his soiled clothes to the huge bucket clearly marked for such items. He had a hunch that they would likely be cleaned, pressed, and returned to his room at some point tomorrow. Despite them not having his name anywhere in the fabric.  
  
He kept the necklace that Frost gave him. Standing nude in the outer rooms, he looked down at the expensive jewelry, the dark jewels seeming to absorb the light in the room. Nimble fingers touched the onyx, brushing across the smooth surface. Whatever had prompted Frost to give him the damn thing he didn't think he would ever know.  
  
Shaking his head, Sleet wrapped the small bathing towel around his waist and moved to the wash basin. Pouring cups of the cool water over his head washed out most of the grime and sluicing it over his body left him marginally clean. At least he was suitable enough to enter the warm baths. Flicking a hand through his wet hair, which now felt less gunky, he moved on to the actual baths.  
  
The trickling of water was the first to reach his senses, giving him an auditory layout of the room. Broad, expansive, and surrounded entirely by stone which water clung to in little dribbles. Steam created a misty fog on the water's surface which gave the room an almost ethereal quality. And at first glance, it was unoccupied.  
  
Until Sleet stepped further inside, letting the cloth door fall shut behind him. His gaze fell on the other occupant and he groaned in disappointment. All thoughts of relaxing and stewing in the comfort of a hot bath flitted away.  
  
“Oh, great,” he moaned sarcastically, dropping his towel near the ledge where he planned on entering the steaming water. “You're here.”  
  
One grey eye gave him a passing glance before he was ignored. Raven closed his eye, leaning back against the ridge. He wasn't wearing his eye patch, Sleet noticed, which allowed him to catch a glimpse of the scars that ran over the socket where the eye had once been. Thick and ridged, three slashed diagonally over his eye. Whatever had done it had obviously ripped the orb right from the socket.  
  
Sleet eyed the mercenary, who despite his less than inviting personality carried an appealing physique. His darker skin, marred by an array of battle scars and slices, covered a body aptly proportioned to wielding that huge piece of metal he called a sword. If he were any other person, Sleet probably would have given Raven more than a passing glance.  
  
The thief slid into the water, warmth immediately enclosing his bare body. He hissed at the sudden heat, but endured, perching on the carved seat against the ledge. It quickly seeped into knotted muscles and felt pretty damn good, except for the harsh sting on his wound. It had stopped bleeding, luckily, but was nowhere near recovered.  
  
“Alaris would have healed that for you,” Raven muttered, his one eye opening to watch Sleet from across the bath. “If you had stayed long enough to listen to her.”  
  
Somehow, he looked smaller without the major bulk of his clothing. Almost less imposing. Though the scar on his face didn't make him any less intimidating. Sleet was burning with curiosity about the mark, wondering what caused it. But to find out would require a nearly friendly conversation with the mercenary and he was loathe to instigate that.  
  
Sleet snorted. “The minute I take advice from you is the minute I give up thieving,” he snipped, absently splashing warm water over his shoulders which weren't quite submerged.  
  
“You might want to consider both,” Raven said with a hint of amusement. “Since the former is useful and you seem to be terrible at the latter.”  
  
Indignity squared Sleet's shoulders. “I took that cheap bauble of yours,” he reminded the mercenary, that feeling of annoyance rising in him again.  
  
“And then had it stolen by someone else.” A single eye trailed from Sleet's face and stared pointedly at the faint glimmer of metal sitting against Sleet's chest. “A gift from him, then?”  
  
He resisted the urge to slap his hand over the necklace, not wanting to give Raven the pleasure of knowing he rattled Sleet. He wasn't sure why he didn't just take it off. “That is none of your business.”  
  
Raven, however, ignored him, tugging his gaze away to the far more interesting moisture-covered walls. Calloused fingers ran through his hair, free from the mercenary braid and clinging wetly to his scalp.  
  
“Mute bastard,” Sleet muttered under his breath with a faint huff.  
  
He dunked his head under the water, letting the heat close over him before popping back up, wiping a hand over his face. Raven hadn't even moved, hadn't so much as blinked. And despite himself, curiosity overrode any feelings of irritation. He wondered how a man like Raven could get involved with a priestess like Alaris.  
  
“How did you get involved in this shit?” he asked, raking fingers through his hair and causing it to spike strangely. “Are you an ani-what's-it, too?”  
  
“No.”  
  
He really shouldn't have been surprised by the terse answer. Sleet snorted, sitting back in the water and propping his arms up on the ledges. Would it kill the man to try and hold a damn conversation?  
  
That grey eye shifted his direction, pinning him down. “But my sister was.”  
  
Attention gained, Sleet lifted a brow. “Was?”  
  
“Your friend killed her.” He spoke flatly, voice underlain with anger that flashed across his face.  
  
Sleet blinked. He looked at Raven, but the mercenary was already rising from the bath, water dripping down his body. It was too bad Raven was such an asshole. He was well-muscled and attractive, the sort that made Sleet's insides twist with arousal.  
  
“You're just as guilty as he is,” Raven added, turning his back to Sleet and giving the thief a full view of the scars decorating his back. Some of them looked recent. “Doing nothing is the same as swinging the sword yourself.”  
  
He stepped out of the bath, snatching up his towel and wrapping it around himself in efficient movements. Raven slunk from the room with silent steps that would have made any thief proud. The last Sleet saw of him was the dark sheen of his hair, falling over deeply scarred shoulders.  
  
Disbelief and confusion soon gave way to anger. Sleet gathered his senses and fixed a full glare on the empty doorway where Raven had been. As if that damn mercenary had any right to criticize. He knew nothing of Sleet or his reasons, just assumed that he had right to judge Sleet for something he had nothing to do with. Frost's actions weren't Sleet's fault, if they were even Frost's actions. For all he knew, Raven was the one that was lying.  
  
With a humph, Sleet sat back in the warm water, which smelled strongly of minerals, and reached for the calm he had been seeking. Raven's words continued to echo in his head, along with Alaris' pleading. No matter how much he tried to clear his mind, they continued to crop up.  
  
 _Like it or not, you do have a conscience._  
  
Sleet heaved a sigh, rubbing fingers over his brow. It was bad enough the voice had to return, now it was being snide? What had he done to deserve such a curse? Well, he wasn't going to do the annoying voice a favor by responding. In fact, he was just going to ignore the snippy comment and drown out any further words.  
  
He rose from the bath and grabbed his own towel, giving it a faint swipe over his head to wipe off the majority of the moisture. Quiet steps took him back into the changing room where he dried off jerkily and pulled on the clothing. Unsurprisingly, it fit him perfectly. He idly wondered if Alaris' knowledge of the future included provided clothing sizes for her “heroes.”  
  
Fully dressed, he wandered out of the bath and sought the nearest exit. It was easy enough sneaking around the servants and others who might run off and tattle to Alaris that he was slipping out. They were all so harried that they never noticed Sleet sliding through the shadows and eventually finding a door that led outside. Even luckier, it faced the exit.  
  
The large gates were closed for the evening, but the small door to the side was still open and unguarded. It was likely to stay that way all night, Sleet knew. It wasn't prudent for temples to start turning away those in need. It might give them a bad image or something.  
  
He planned to leave the temple and find a bar, preferably a raucous, loud one that he could easily get lost in. One where Alaris wouldn't dare search to find him, and deafening enough to block out the noise in his mind. He didn't want to be a hero, didn't want to be coerced into saving the world. It didn't matter what tricks Raven used to convince him, or what pathetic eyes and illusions Alaris cast in his direction. Others' problems weren't his own. Sleet had his own damn issues to deal with without adding “saving the world” to the top of the list.  
  
“Sleet-san!”  
  
The sound of his name was both expected and unwanted. He recognized Tungsten's voice in a second, but didn't bother pausing. Inwardly, he was hoping the mage would give up and return to whatever religious discussion he had been involved in. Feet pattered across the ground, and he heard the distinct sound of huffing breath.  
  
“Sleet-san!”  
  
Sleet stopped. He owed Tungsten, after all, and if the mage was going to chase him the whole way, calling out his name, he needed to put a stop to it now. He turned to see Tungsten practically running across the courtyard in a hurry to catch up to him, barely keeping from tripping on the hem of his too-large robes.  
  
Tungsten came to a stop in front of him, face red from exertion. “Where are you going?” he panted, looking up at Sleet with a mixture of confusion and concern.  
  
The thief shrugged, his own gaze captivated by the escape that was just a few steps away. He could see the lanterns of the town glimmering invitingly. “Out.”  
  
“You're leaving?”  
  
Sleet didn't answer, letting Tungsten draw his own conclusions. He hadn't yet decided. Especially considering he didn't have a destination in mind. It was best to soak up Alaris' hospitality while he could.  
  
The mage sucked in air, still trying to catch fleeting breaths. “Why? I don't understand it. If what Alaris says is true, then the whole world could be in danger.”  
  
“That has nothing to do with me,” Sleet said, shaking his head. One hand dropped to his side, idly fingering his pouch to determine just how much money he had left. “Illusions and parlor tricks aren't going to convince me either.”  
  
“It was real,” Tungsten insisted, and he sounded so serious that Sleet had to drag his attention back to the normally bumbling man. “I know, somehow, I just know it. The man she showed us... that was Hephastion. And he needs our help.”  
  
Sleet wanted to snort at the idea of the omniscient and omnipotent gods needing the help of the mortals. But judging by the look on Tungsten's face, the severity of his tone, Sleet knew that the mage actually believed what he was saying.  
  
It wasn't that Sleet completely didn't care. He did have something similar to a conscience, and the worry that the world was heading to a vast end had found its way into his thought processes once or twice. The truth of the matter, however, remained that he valued his own life far more. He didn't want to risk it for a bunch of strangers, for people he didn't know, for people who wouldn't give a good goddamn about his own life. He didn't want to face death time and time again for peace or justice or any one of those so-called noble traits.  
  
Maybe he was a coward. Maybe he was no better than what everyone believed of Frost. But damn it, that was his choice to make. No one had even given him one when it came to this voice, to the demons trying to kill him in Tawnry. Some god just took it upon himself to choose Sleet as his host, to give him a destiny he didn't want.  
  
He turned away from Tungsten, pointing his feet toward the door that was calling for him. In the back of his mind, a voice spoke, but Sleet was good at delusion. He pretended he hadn't heard it at all.  
  
“Then help him,” he replied. “You have nothing better to do, right? Be a god's lap dog. That's not for me.”  
  
He picked up the pace once more, heading to the exit. His mouth was suddenly craving the sweet burn of alcohol, the mind-numbing effects of getting soused. Warm and consuming, flooding through him. Making him forget the past few days, all of the madness that had descended on his life.  
  
“I don't know why you're saying that,” Tungsten called after him, sounding disappointed in Sleet, as though his opinion held any weight. “You're a kinder person, Sleet-san.”  
  
“I'm a thief,” he corrected, without pausing to turn. “And I look out for one person. Me.”  
  


*****


	9. The Advent of Courage - Chapter Four

Gwartney's boundaries were clearly demarcated, just like in Tawnry. To one side stood the wealthy and the affluent, the law-abiding citizens who relied on rules and morals to exist. To the other, stood the poor and the lawless, those who embraced freedom and madness, who considered themselves beholden to none. The thieves and the murderers and all manner of derelict human beings who were drawn to each other, like moths to flame. And somewhere in the middle hovered those in between, cursing the rich and fearing the wicked.   
  
The bar Sleet found was a tamer version of the Watering Hole. The stench was less invasive, the heat less enclosing, and the crowd much smaller. But it still contained the same raucous atmosphere, cheap swill, and collection of miscreants.  
  
Sleet slipped into the noise and bustle, easily making his way through the thick and boisterous crowd. Names were shouted over his head and he was often bumped into by people larger than himself, but there was nothing to be done for that. Besides, he wanted a drink and would have done nearly anything to get it. Pickings were slim amongst the few pockets he managed to creep his fingers into. Of course, riffraff usually knew how to hide their meager wealth from other riffraff. It was to be expected.   
  
Not that coin wasn't to be had, just not here in the darkest district. In the length of time it took him to cross Gwartney and head from the pious center of the temple to the seedy sections of city, his fingers had acquired a good bit of coin.   
  
Sleet found the bar in record time and was the first to leap into a seat recently emptied by the drunk who had fallen out of it. He paid no attention to the inebriated man, digging a coin from his pouch. He slapped the thick metal onto the counter with a sharp sound, designed to catch the ear of any bartender.   
  
As a bearded man turned his direction, Sleet ordered his drink, whiskey, and made it a double.   
  
Taking the coin, the barkeep turned back around to get his drink. The moment it was set in front of Sleet, he downed half of it and relished the warmth that burned its way into his belly. Sweet relief. Sucking down the last bit, he ordered another round, and then finally glanced around the bar itself.   
  
The place was in only slightly better condition than the Hole, insomuch that it was mildly cleaner. The mugs actually looked something close to clean and the fire in the hearth was at an acceptable level. Rather than peeling and stained, Sleet found the walls covered in tapestries of varying condition and design, a few of them quite lecherous. But catching the eye of one or two patrons was all the proof he needed that the characters were just as unsavory.   
  
Squaring his shoulders, Sleet balanced his elbows on the counter and focused his attention on the stacks of bottles behind the bar. He curled his fingers around his drink, and held it close, inhaling the bitter scent. About to take a sip, he was jostled from the side as a man broke free from the crowd and made a disjointed aim for the empty stool to Sleet's right. He nearly spilled his whiskey, and Sleet turned, shooting a scowl in the man's direction.   
  
There was a screech of wood across the floor as the stranger grasped the stool and pulled himself into it with a weary heave, nearly collapsing onto the thin seat. Sleet blinked in surprise.   
  
“Yaris?” he exclaimed, voice cracking. He certainly hadn't expected to run into his friend here in Gwartney.  
  
Yaris looked worse for wear, his clothes in disarray and caked with soot in several places. His hair was greasy and unbound, hanging in limp clumps around his face. Numerous wounds were visible, on his arms and hands and right cheek, only half-bandaged and in need of better care.   
  
Bleary, unfocused eyes shifted toward him. “Sleet?” he mumbled in a drunken voice as he wobbled in his precarious placement on the stool. “You're alive.”   
  
“One could say the same for you,” he retorted.   
  
Reaching out, Sleet grabbed Yaris' shoulder and helped steady him on the stool. His fingers glanced across the other thief's neck, and felt the heat of his body. He was practically burning up, but whether from exertion or too much alcohol, Sleet couldn't say. And Yaris was already ordering more, unsteady fingers placing coin on the counter top.   
  
“Where's Usoff?” he added, craning his neck to see through the press of people in the bar. “In the privy? Or did he catch some girl?”   
  
Once bright grey eyes grew murky as they fell toward the counter and the sweating drink in his hand. His free fist slammed onto the bar angrily. “Usoff's gone,” Yaris said and abruptly lowered his voice into a near snarl. “Those damn demons. Couldn't even lay a finger on the bastards.”   
  
Sleet froze. The bartender nudged him for his new drink, and he accepted it, but didn't take a sip. Sleet watched as Yaris gestured for another shot, his mind a confusing mix of emotions that stuttered loudly through him.   
  
“He insisted on goin' back ta look for ya,” Yaris continued, without any prompting on Sleet's part, lost to his drunken recollection. “An' then, the buildin' collapsed, and it was burnin' and...” he trailed off, fingers clutching so tightly to his mug that Sleet feared the cheap wood would snap in half. “... He's gone.”   
  
The guilt that swelled up in his throat, sour and burning, tasted a bit like vomit. Because Sleet had not once thought about them, or if they had survived. He'd had only one passing thought about looking for them, but had dismissed it on the assumption that they would take care of themselves. And in the back of his mind, he knew that it had really been selfishness.   
  
_“By doing nothing, you're as guilty as he is.”_  
  
Raven's words came back to haunt Sleet.   
  
Regardless of the fact there was no proof of Frost being guilty of anything, Raven had a valid point. Sleet had done nothing, hadn't even cared, and yet Usoff had gone back to look for him. To make sure that he was all right. He hadn't bothered to do the same.   
  
Some friend.   
  
He didn't have any words to say. Any comfort. All he could offer was a paltry apology. “I'm sorry,” Sleet murmured, his voice cracking. “I... I'm sorry.”   
  
It was lame, and it was the best he could do, which tugged all too painfully inside of him. Had he truly been that cold? And he had been the one to survive while Yaris had lost a friend who had been a brother to him. Sleet had heard their story, countless times. Grew up together, lost their families together, became thieves together. Everything, always together.   
  
And now it was just Yaris alone.   
  
Yaris snorted and hunched over his mug, staring at the amber liquid. “Glad ya made it out, tho',” he muttered. “Usoff woulda been ha'py ta hear it.” His shoulders twitched and he swallowed down the entire mug in one big gulp, some of it sliding past his lips to spill over the sides of his mouth and drip down his front.   
  
“That's good to know,” Sleet replied on automatic. His own thoughts were racing through his skull.   
  
He survived, but he wondered how much of it was due to Frost's influence. He remembered that moment when he thought that he was going to be killed, when Frost had stood over him with an eerie sheen in his eyes. When Frost had been arguing with something internal, debating over Sleet's fate.  
  
Frost hadn't killed him, hadn't even tried. And there was something within him, some other influence. Though Sleet didn't want to believe it, the idea of a deity having effect on a mortal wasn't too farfetched. If Frost had an anima like Alaris, like Sleet supposedly did, then it would explain the internal arguing.   
  
Sleet's hand lifted to his tunic, touching where the necklace lay beneath the cloth and against his skin. Neither he nor Frost were killers. Otherwise they wouldn't have bothered with thievery and Frost wouldn't have been so selective in his marks. They didn't shed blood coldhandedly. It wasn't in Frost's eye,s and the thought of taking someone's life made Sleet physically ill. He didn't want that on his hands or his conscience.   
  
In his mind, he tried to see Frost doing everything that Raven implied. Murdering. Razing cities down to the ground. Setting destruction across the land. But Sleet couldn't picture it because it didn't match with what Sleet knew of Frost. What prize was in it for Frost? What sparkling, rare artifact would be worth all that trouble? Sleet couldn't think of a single thing. He knew Frost. After two years, he was pretty certain he knew Frost. Something wasn't adding up.   
  
Sleet sighed as he watched Yaris stare blearily into his mug, no longer drinking the alcohol. It wavered in his grasp, untouched. Yaris, in the meantime, had fallen silent. No longer muttering about the demons. Sleet knew from past experience that this usually meant his friend was done for the evening. So, waving away the bartender bringing a fresh mug, Sleet slid down from his stool. He set a few coins on the counter, enough to cover Yaris' bill, he hoped, and carefully took the mug from Yaris' hand.   
  
He couldn't make up for being a failure of a human being, but at least he could make sure that Yaris woke up in a warm inn rather than in some back alley, covered in his own vomit. Even if it meant he had drag the blond there himself.   
  
“Time to go 'ready?” Yaris mumbled, not protesting the loss of the alcohol. He wobbled precariously on his stool.   
  
Sleet nodded, gripping his elbow and trying to help him off without sending the both of them sprawling to the ground. “Yeah. You're done, buddy,” he replied, wincing when most of Yaris' weight fell on his shoulder as the other thief slid drunkenly down from the stool. “You staying somewhere?”   
  
Shaking his head, Yaris stumbled before finding his footing. Sleet grunted at the added weight, and told himself that it was penance. He owed Yaris this much at least, and definitely more.   
  
Fighting his way through the increasingly crowded bar was even harder with Yaris accidentally tripping him every other step, but Sleet managed. His friend had been reduced to drunken mutterings that made little sense. He could occasionally make out Usoff's name, a curse toward the demons, but otherwise, nothing concrete. Nothing that needed commenting.   
  
They stepped out into the cool night, the skies as clear as they had been before with the stars bright pinpoints against the inky black. Torches flared brightly on other buildings up and down the street and Sleet snagged a passing stranger, who looked half-sotted himself, but less intoxicated than Yaris.   
  
“Where's the nearest inn?” Sleet asked, staggering as Yaris groaned and leaned on him further. The sound of him swallowing thickly was loud against Sleet's ear. He hoped that vomiting wasn't next on the list.   
  
The stranger looked them up and down. “The cheapest one?” he asked, arching one brow. When Sleet stared, he waved his hand in one direction and giggled oddly. “Thataway, thataway, good sir.” And with a hiccup, he wandered into the bar that Sleet had emerged from.   
  
Wrinkling his nose at the ripe odor accompanying the stranger, Sleet followed his directions, dragging Yaris along with him. It took him the better part of twenty minutes to get his friend to the nearest, cheapest inn. He used his own coin to get Yaris a room and dumped the drunken thief into a bed.   
  
Yaris didn't mutter even a single protest, beginning to snore as his fingers twitched at the empty side of the mattress. Reaching for someone who was no longer there.   
  
The sight of him made the guilt clench in Sleet's belly once more, turning his dark mood pitch-black. Squaring his jaw, Sleet pulled off his money pouch and tucked the last of his coin against Yaris' side. It wasn't much. Hell, it wasn't anything at all really. And it didn't help ease his conscience in the slightest.   
  
Sleet nudged the chamberpot, recently cleaned by the sight of it, toward the bed. Yaris would need it in the morning. Casting a final glance ar the room, Sleet decided it was time that he left. There wasn't anything more he could do for Yaris.   
  
“I'm sorry,” Sleet said to the quiet room with its single, mourning occupant, and then locked the door, making his escape out the window.   
  
Sleet hit the streets, shoulders heavy and alcohol turning sour in his belly. If there was something more he could do for Yaris, Sleet didn't know what it could be. All he could do now was take care of himself.   
  
Even for it being this late, and for a city that was supposedly pious, there were many roaming around. He flitted amongst the crowd, bumping into strangers and deftly relieving them of the burden of their belongings. A trio of singing minstrels made for an easy mark, too distracted by their song to notice him liberating their coin.   
  
A clumsy, obviously drunk mercenary was easy pickings, helping Sleet replace the daggers he'd lost. He tucked one into his boot and the other he stuck through his belt, within easy reach. Sleet felt better for having the weapons, less like the damsel in distress and more like a man who could take care of himself.   
  
His fingers slipped into another pocket, retrieving several more silver that clinked nicely amongst the copper and one gold piece he had scavenged from other pockets.   
  
Sleet's wanderings took him from the seedier portion of Gwartney and into the business district, where the crowds were lighter, the buildings tidier, and the lighting more apparent. Here, litter was nonexistent and bright torches announced each establishment. Of course, with night falling deeper and deeper, many business were closing. He could hear the clang of the blacksmith, who always worked late, and his nose picked out fresh bread, a baker preparing his wares for the next day.   
  
Sleet ceased his itchy fingers, unwilling to be caught by the local law. Instead, he searched for a clothier, finding one quickly. As expected, it was closed. Not like that sort of thing would stop a thief. Pausing to look around, a flash of dark hair from the corner of his eye caught his attention. His heart leapt into his throat.   
  
Whirling, Sleet scanned the crowd, convinced that it hadn't just been hair. He could have sworn that brief glimpse was Frost. Rising on his tiptoes and cursing his height, Sleet's gaze whipped through the passing strangers. There were so few that it was easy to see one from the other. Frost was not among them.   
  
Wow, Sleet. Getting desperate there? Did he want to see Frost so badly that he'd start imagining the other thief?   
  
Swiping a hand down his face, Sleet decided to forgo pilfering the clothier's. With the way his mind was working, he'd likely get himself caught. Thought it might have been worth it to see if Alaris would vouch for him.  
  
Sighing, the thief turned on his heel and headed back to the inn he had passed earlier, cheaper than the one where he had bought a room for Yaris. He didn't want to go back to the temple, not yet anyway.  
  
A few copper got him a small cot with blankets that at least smelled clean. Sleet shucked off his boots, tossed his tunic over the back of a chair and flopped down onto the cot. It creaked ominously beneath his weight. And somewhere above him, something was hitting the floor rhythmically, along with a woman's giggle. The walls here were paper thin; he heard someone in the next room cough, long and wet. Unhealthily.   
  
On the cautious side, he shoved the blanket over the side of the cot. A little chill wasn't worth the possibility of illness. And folding his arms under his head, Sleet stared at the ceiling. Wide-awake. He didn't feel like sleeping, though fatigue pulled at his entire body. The wound in his side ached and he reached down, gingerly pressing a palm to the bandages. They held strong, however, not at all damp. Perhaps the pain was only in his guilty imagination.   
  
Just like Frost.   
  
Sleet rolled on the bed, staring at the wall with marks in it, likely from a knife of some kind. Alaris' words. Raven's accusations. Frost's strange behavior. It circled around and around in his head, like a theatrical production in constant motion. Encore after encore of the same tired opus. In the back of his mind, he could feel the presence, the pressure of the voice that he'd tried his best to ignore.   
  
He had a choice; Sleet knew that. And while he didn't want anything to do with war or risking his life for others, the questions were always going to plague him. He cared nothing for the problems of the gods, but Frost... Frost was another story. He didn't know what the other man was thinking. Frost had been acting oddly, saying weird things, giving Sleet mysterious gifts...  
  
Sleet had to know why; he needed to know. Or it was going to haunt him, just like the lingering guilt of Usoff's death. And perhaps, in some small way, he owed it to Yaris. The answers that Yaris would never see for himself, unless he knew enough to track down Frost, Sleet needed to find them. If he could just see Frost, catch him for a moment, maybe something could be explained. He would worry about getting the voice out of his head later.   
  
He realized, unfortunately, that his best method of tracking Frost down was probably through Alaris and her strong-armed idiot, Raven. Despite his surly attitude, he did his job well. And if anything, Raven's determination to find Frost meant that they would find the thief sooner or later. They didn't have to know that Sleet wasn't there to save the world. He owed them nothing. All he cared about was Frost, nothing else.   
  


o0o0o

  
It was a sleepy Sleet who was creeping his way back to the temple in the early hours of the dawn. The morning was still dim, oranges and pinks stealing over the horizon. It was chilly enough that Sleet's breath came out in short, foggy wisps. The market was already waking, merchants calling out greetings to each other and regular customers, the early-risers who did their shopping before all the merchandise was even ready. Sleet ignored all of this, trying to chase away the fatigue pulling at him as he hurried across Gwartney and back to the temple.   
  
The streets weren't crowded, making it easier to find his way, and soon he was standing before the double-gates, flung as wide open as before. He doubted they had closed for even a moment during the night. Scraping a hand over his head and fighting back a yawn, Sleet slipped onto the temple grounds, trying to recall the fastest way back to his room.   
  
Relying on his suddenly spotty memory turned out to be unnecessary as he spied a group of horses and people gathered to the right of the gate, near a small copse of trees. The distance wasn't so great that he couldn't make out their identities. What were Raven and Tungsten doing awake so early in the morning? The sun had barely graced the sky.   
  
Before he could even get two steps in their direction, his presence was noted by Tungsten. The mage lifted a hand, waving at him in far too cheerful of a manner. “Sleet-san!” he called loudly, causing the thief to wince. “You came back.”   
  
He noticed that Raven didn't bother to look, busily tugging on the straps to Flurin's saddle and making sure it was in place. Karasu was perched on Raven's shoulder, cawing lightly in the cool morning air. The bird cocked its head, giving Sleet a beady-eyed look as the thief approached, but otherwise ignored him as well.   
  
“Something like that,” Sleet said, coming to a rest besides the mage. He tipped his head to the side. “Going somewhere?”   
  
Shooting a glance toward Raven, Tungsten nodded, reaching to secure one of his bags to the saddle. “Alaris has found another animus,” he explained, grunting as he tugged the knots a bit tighter. “We're going to get them.”   
  
“Them?” Sleet repeated quizzically, watching Raven from the corner of his eye. The mercenary was making preparations, however, and didn't bother to offer a comment.   
  
Tungsten made a noise of agreement in his throat. “Twins, apparently, each having their own anima.”  
  
“And you're going along?”   
  
Those green eyes shifted to look at him, brow furrowed in confusion. “Why wouldn't I?” Tungsten asked, turning to lean against his horse and adjust the folds of his shortened robes. “Alaris explained everything to me and I want to help. She's even offered to help me in my studies.”   
  
“How lucky for you,” Sleet replied dryly, his mood soured by the fatigue that pulled on him. He cocked a gaze at Raven, who had reached up to stroke a few fingers across Karasu's head. The bird ruffled its fathers, shifting position on the mercenary's shoulder. “You're going, too?”   
  
“Don't sound so surprised,” Raven said gruffly as Karasu took off from his shoulder to rise into the sky, cawing loudly. “This is my job. You should really be asking that question of yourself.”   
  
The sound of more horses approaching filled the silence after Raven's statement and Sleet turned to see Alaris arriving, on the back of a grey stallion and holding the reins of another horse, free of a passenger. She was no longer wearing the expensive and decorated robes of last night, but something more suitable for traveling. Thick tights beneath a long-sleeved over-robe, high slits up the sides. It was belted at the waist and Sleet could just make out a dagger and a casting rod, like Tungsten's, tucked into the sash.   
  
With a twist of her wrist, Alaris pulled on the reins, both horses coming to a halt. She eyed Sleet as she slid down from her stallion. “Mr. Underwood, you made it.”   
  
Sleet blinked. “You were expecting me?”   
  
She shrugged elegantly, sweeping her hair over one shoulder and lifting a hand to brush fingers through her horse's mane. “I had hoped,” Alaris corrected, something unnameable in her sharp blue gaze. It felt too much like Hephaestion was looking out at him through her.   
  
Sleet's arms crossed his chest as he focused on the priestess, ignoring the other's. “I'm not here to be a hero,” he declared, wanting to get that straight first and foremost. “I just want answers.”   
  
“Don't we all, Mr. Underwood,” she replied, turning away from her horse and pinning him with her own eerie stare. There was a sense of challenge to it. “If anything, you are safer with us than on your own. The enemy doesn't care for your sense of neutrality. They will try to kill you again.”   
  
Annoyance peaked at the constant formal address, until he realized just what she had said. Sleet's brow furrowed. “Again?” he repeated, tipping his head to the side. This was the first he had heard of it.   
  
“Idiot,” Raven snorted, moving to Tungsten's horse and fixing a few straps that the mage had connected wrongly. “Why else do you think the demons were in Tawnry? Just a little random murder and mayhem?”   
  
Sleet bristled, shooting the mercenary a vitriolic glare that must have struck right between his shoulder blades. “It makes more sense than for a bunch of monsters to come after me in particular.”   
  
“Unless these creatures were controlled by Balaam,” Alaris pointed out logically, lifting one hand to brush a lock of loose hair behind her dainty ears. “And if you were an animus, than yes, they would definitely be seeking your life.”   
  
That cold feeling in Sleet's belly continued to grow, twisting and pressing in on him. Guilt mixed with a heavy dose of fear for his own life. The shame he felt, however, had nothing on the terror. Tawnry had been burned because of him? The beasts had been after him? Why hadn't anyone bothered to mention such a thing before?   
  
As he mentally flipped, breathing coming out sharp and erratic, Alaris continued her explanation. “As it stands, both Tungsten and I are in considerable danger. It is only one of the reasons I am leaving the temple and I hope, Mr. Underwood, that you would deign to join us.”   
  
“Sleet,” he ground out, feeling a familiar irritation rising within him. Of course, it was then that his head chose to start aching. “Stop patronizing me.”   
  
She ducked her head and he supposed it was meant to be contrite. “I apologize, Sleet, but you have to understand. You can no longer hide on your own, now that your identity has been discovered.”   
  
“Let the little fool do whatever he wants, Alaris,” Raven declared, throwing the statement over his shoulder as he cinched the last of Tungsten's straps and stepped toward his own horse. He climbed into the saddle, situating himself as he cast Sleet a dismissing look. “We don't need him.”   
  
Twisting his jaw, Sleet quickly formed a scathing retort, but Alaris beat him to it. “We do,” she countered, not even bothering to look at Raven. “Because like it or not, only a god can fight another god and without their power, we can do nothing.”   
  
“I still don't see what that has to do with wanting to kill me,” Sleet protested warily. “I'm just a human, not a god.”   
  
Raven snorted, but didn't comment as Karasu cawed and wheeled down for a landing, dropping down onto the mercenary's shoulder.   
  
Alaris took a deep breath, reaching out to grab the reins of her suddenly skittish horse that was likely startled by the raven's call. “Balaam wants to control everything, and to do that he needs the power of all the deities. So long as they are bonded to their animus, he cannot completely control the elements.”   
  
Hedging, Sleet lowered his gaze in thought. He knew nothing of magic or deities or anything that   
Alaris was attempting to explain. He didn't know if he could trust her words to be accurate, or if she was simply spitting lies to encourage him to come along. It was possible that the demons were seeking his life, if he took Frost's strange behavior and words into account. He distinctly recalled him saying something to the effect of 'Erebus' other'.   
  
“Erebus,” he murmured to himself, more than to anyone else, but it was a name that seemed to stir a reaction in Alaris. Her eyes practically lit up, chasing away the calm that she was projecting.   
  
She stepped forward, crowding him with her greater height. “Is that he?” she asked, a bit too excited and causing him to edge backwards. “Your animus?”   
  
“I don't know,” Sleet replied, shaking his head as he tried to chase that memory of Frost and the strange look in his eyes.  
  
“Alaris, the day is wasting,” Raven inserted gruffly, Flurin pawing the ground with impatient taps of her hooves against solid earth. “We have to leave.”   
  
The priestess inclined her head, a look of brief irritation crossing her features. “Raven is right. Come with us or not, Sleet. The choice is yours.” She turned, heading back to her own horse and climbing into it with a skill that Sleet would not have expected from a priestess.   
  
Barely shooting him a passing glance, Raven flicked the reins of his horse, leading Flurin towards the wide open gates. Alaris fell into line beside him as Tungsten climbed into his own saddle with far less grace than the others. He pulled his horse up beside Sleet, something like hope glinting in his eyes.   
  
“I think you should come,” Tungsten suggested as he absently adjusted the fall of cloth around him so that it didn't tangle his legs. “You want answers, don't you?”   
  
Unfolding his arms, Sleet sighed, raking a hand over his hair and unfortunately, thoughts of Yaris sifting through his head. “I do,” he admitted grudgingly, moving to the last horse. “But that's the only reason.”   
  
He reached for the saddle, pulling himself into it. The horse skittered as he settled amongst the packs and such attached, one of which he recognized as being his own. At least he had his own mount this time and didn't have to share with Raven. Small favors.   
  
“Is it?” Tungsten asked, flicking his reins and urging his horse forward to fall behind Alaris as Sleet steered his own beside Tungsten's. There was a hint of something in his voice, something that belied his bumbling exterior.   
  
Sleet squared his shoulders, frowning as he considered the question. Yes, he wanted answers. And yes, he wanted to find Frost. But he also wanted to get to Frost before the others. He didn't like the bloodlust he sensed in Raven's gaze. The mercenary hated Frost, there was no doubt about that.   
  
Curling his fingers tighter around the reins, Sleet simply gave an offhanded shrug. “Yeah, it is,” he confirmed, perhaps a bit too sharply. No need to play out all his cards. He wasn't here to make friends, despite Tungsten's attempts to be amiable.   
  
He felt those green eyes watching him, with a piercing insistence that seemed odd for Tungsten's usual demeanor. “Alaris never did explain where we were going,” Sleet said with a fake and sudden burst of remembrance. “I should ask.”   
  
Before Tungsten could say anything further, Sleet flicked the reins and encouraged his horse – whose name he hadn't bothered to learn yet – to pick up the pace. He drew up carefully to Alaris' side, as their chosen route was suddenly narrow. He noticed that Raven had taken point, hawkishly scanning the throng for the first sign of danger. Not that there was much of that to be found on the main road of Gwartney.   
  
Alaris was riding at a leisurely pace, no hurry in any of her movements as she held to the reins with one hand and flipped slowly through what appeared to be a book. It was tightly bound, holding thick pages and scribbled in dark black ink that sprawled in fancy loops across the paper. The tome looked old, each page yellowed and almost brittle, forcing her to handle it with great care. It was the sort of thing that Frost would have loved to steal. Rare. Priceless. Challenging.  
  
Sleet's eyes dropped to the writing, but it was unlike any language he had ever seen before. It vaguely resembled something from the Uldalvian region, with smatterings of Esville. The flair to every letter didn't help matters at all.   
  
“It is quite unique,” Alaris began abruptly, proving that she had been fully aware of Sleet's presence despite being completely absorbed in her reading. “The stories that would be told if only we opened our ears. Or our minds.”   
  
His brow furrowed. “What?”   
  
She didn't even glance at him, instead dragging a finger and manicured fingernail down the length of the page, running over inscribed lines. “The gods which we have forgotten, they are all here, described in detail. Their names. Their duties. Even going so far as to tell of their origin.”  
  
“And how did you come across that?”   
  
“Chance,” Alaris replied and shifted in her seat, her finger brushing across the last word on the page before tapping on a period. “And a bit of luck. It was rescued from a temple in Esville, before it was destroyed.” The book closed with a final thump and tucked carefully under her hand as she turned to smile lightly at him. “I see that you decided to join us, Sleet.”   
  
Somehow, it felt as though she were mocking him. Though her expression remained as pleasant and guardedly hopeful, as it had been when they first met, Sleet couldn't shake the feeling that she was deriding him behind every syllable. It settled uncomfortably on his shoulders, making him bristle without any real proof as to why.   
  
His left eye twitched. “Where are we heading?” he asked, smoothly avoiding Alaris' statement and the annoyance it caused him.   
  
Alaris' smile widened. “Nename.”   
  
Searching his rather sieve-like memory, Sleet blinked in surprise as he stared at the woman, not expecting her answer. “That's more than a week's journey.”   
  
More than that, it was a week's travel steadily northwards, where it got colder quickly, the land turning mountainous and bleak. Unfortunately, Sleet knew this all too well. Nename was only a few days ride southeast of his hometown and Sleet had never been fond of frigid winters spent there.   
  
“It is. But one we must make.”   
  
He kept his realizations to himself however, barely keeping from making a disappointed face. “These twins... you're sure they are... animus?” he questioned, stumbling a bit over the unfamiliar word.   
  
Alaris inclined her head. “Without a doubt.”   
  
“But how do you know?” Sleet pressed, still slightly suspicious of this woman and her ability to seemingly know things she shouldn't. “And how did you know where to find me, for that matter?”   
  
The book was quickly tucked against her side. “Hephaestion,” Alaris answered as they edged closer to the double gates heading out of Gwartney, to the north rather than the south where Sleet had entered from. “He says that all anima can sense the animus. Their signature differs from a normal mortal's.”   
  
Sleet's brow furrowed, his thieving instincts cringing at the thought. “Any god can track any animus?” She nodded, but something didn't quite add up. “If that were true, than you would have found me earlier.”   
  
“Not quite,” Alaris said. Tungsten appeared at her other side, idly dropping in on their conversation with interested ears, though he had probably heard most of it the night before. “Until the animus and the anima resonate, the signature lies dormant.”   
  
“But you can't find Frost?”   
  
She shook her head, both she and Sleet noticing that Raven had dropped back as well, until he was within hearing range. “I didn't say that I couldn't. The goal right now isn't to find Frost and Balaam, but to find the others before he does.”   
  
A small sound left Sleet's mouth before he could stop it, partially disgust and partially irritation. “What makes you so certain Frost's involved?” he asked, purposefully ignoring Raven's personal tale.   
  
Alaris' lip twitched as she glanced at him from the corner of her eye, almost as though she were hiding some secret. “What makes you so certain he isn't?”   
  
“I think I know him better than you do.”   
  
Raven chose that moment to comment, a mocking snort echoing from ahead of them. “Two years of fucking a man doesn't mean you know him,” he remarked shortly. Karasu cawed in agreement, sounding almost as if the crow were laughing at Sleet.   
  
Astride his horse, Sleet absolutely froze, body going still with a mix of anger and irritation as he felt his face go bloodless. Like he needed Raven to blast his business to everybody, including Tungsten and Alaris, who didn't know a thing. He felt an incredible urge to leap from his horse and tackle Raven, bearing him down to the ground rather violently. His fingers gripped the reins so tightly that the leather squeaked in his hold. A scathing retort danced on the tip of his tongue.   
  
“Mr. Thiest,” Alaris suddenly cut in, her voice pleasant but somehow razor-sharp and edged with reproach, “Perhaps scouting ahead would be beneficial to our travels?” It wasn't so much a suggestion as it was a command, leaving Sleet to wonder why Raven obeyed her.  
  
Raven shifted in the saddle, tossing her a nettled glare before shifting back around with a huff and carrying on ahead of them. Karasu took off from his shoulder with a piercing 'caw', wheeling ahead of his master, no doubt seeing what the mercenary could not.   
  
Despite his disappearing immediate presence, Sleet's ire did not fade. He glared hot daggers at the mercenary's back, wishing that he were actually capable of doing some damage. It didn't help that curious eyes were now watching him from the side, the look on Tungsten's face something Sleet didn't care to interpret.   
  
Beside the thief, Alaris pulled out her book once more, opening it up to the proper page, the one she had been on before. Sleet recognized the illustration on one side of it, that of a blue-scaled dragon sweeping high across the skies. Its glittering emerald-gem eyes seemed full of wisdom, just like Hephaestion's blue gaze had been.   
  
“We have a long journey ahead of us,” she began offhandedly, seemingly instantly absorbing herself in the book. “We should all make the most of it and try to get along.”   
  
Feeling as if he had just been chastised like a child, Sleet squared his shoulders and pulled away from the priestess, distancing himself from her knowing looks and tone. Tungsten's eyes followed him, having kept his comments to himself, and Sleet later noticed that he and Alaris settled into a boring discussion of the fifteen deities and their duties. He only vaguely listened, nothing of interest floating his direction.   
  
This was going to be one hell of a journey. Frost better damn well appreciate him.   
  


* * *


	10. The Advent of Courage - Chapter Five

Sleet shivered as he dumped a cupful of the river water over his head, the cold splashing over his ears and trickling down his face. His nose twitched at the fresh water, that no doubt surged from the mountains in a spring melt. It was a reminder he hadn't needed of their increasing proximity to the north, Nename, and his hometown.   
  
Dropping the cup to the side, he scraped fingers over his hair, giving himself the semblance of being clean. He couldn't wait until they got to the next town, hating the feel of traveling for several days covering him. He supposed it was partly his fault. He was a thief, they were supposed to be adaptable, used to wandering. But he'd gotten complacent by settling his life in Tawnry.   
  
Splash!   
  
The water rippled beneath him and Sleet blinked, looking to the side where Tungsten was muttering to himself as he hauled his lower half out of the water. The mage looked up at him with a sheepish expression as he sogged onto the bank, shivering at the water's chill. It wasn't hard to guess what had happened.   
  
“Have you always been this clumsy?” Sleet asked, falling back onto his buttocks on the mushy ground. He stretched out his legs as he swiped a moistened cloth over his face.   
  
Tungsten sighed heavily. “Always,” he replied, dropping down to the ground to pull off his now soggy sandals. The carefully inked lines on his forehead were beginning to run.   
  
One hand lifted, wiping at the messy lines and coming away with a smear of black. Tungsten frowned as he held his fingers in front of his face, barely visible in the moonlight.   
  
Sleet chuckled. “I always thought that was something people grew out of,” he said, squeezing water out of his cloth and tucking it back into his sack. The simple motion of stretching for the bag made something in his lower back twinge and Sleet groaned. Days in the saddle were no easier on him now than they were before.   
  
Wet robes hit the ground with a loud plop, leaving Tungsten in his underrobe, a thinner layer of fabric that fell to his knees. His skin was glowingly pale in the dark. Had Tungsten ever played outside as a child? Hell, Sleet's mother had practically thrown them out of the house once they were old enough to not eat dirt without being told not to. They rarely wasted time with anything like studying.   
  
Raking a hand through his hair and tucking it behind his ears, Tungsten tossed Sleet a half-exasperated look. “My master certainly hoped so.”  
  
And there it was again. That stab of not-quite-guilt that Sleet was becoming more and more familiar with lately. It curdled in his belly, making it clench uncomfortably. It bothered him at all the wrong moments, hanging in the back of his mind like a stale odor. He couldn't seem to ignore it.   
  
Chewing on his bottom lip, he tried for sympathy. “You were close?”   
  
“About as close as a master and student could be.” Water dripped to the ground as Tungsten tried to squeeze the worst of the water from his clothes. “Though I don't think I was his favorite pupil.”   
  
Sleet wasn't sure what to say to that, so he settled for silence. He dropped his eyes back to his own business, reaching for his last clean tunic and sliding it over his head. The dark blue fabric settled comfortably across his shoulders, though still faintly stiff from having been recently purchased.   
  
Yes, he had actually paid for it. Raven's glare and Alaris' watchful eye had pretty much ensured that. Though neither had managed to see what passing strangers had been relieved of the burden of their purses. Or the new flint that he had acquired from a distracted merchant. Che. Amateurs.   
  
“Sleet?”   
  
Sleet balled his dirty tunic up, shoving it to the bottom of his saddlebag. “Yeah?” he asked, shooting Tungsten a look from the corner of his eyes.   
  
The mage looked at his damp robes, twisting the fabric around in his hands. “A few days ago,” he began, and it was enough to make Sleet's relatively decent mood plummet into his stomach. “What Raven said--”   
  
“I don't know,” Sleet interrupted, rising to his feet and gathering his belongings. The urge to flee cropped up so suddenly he was surprised he didn't take off running without knowing why. “Raven's a bastard. Leave it at that.”   
  
He didn't stick around to see what Tungsten really wanted to ask. Sleet turned, heading toward the campsite a little way through the trees, only to come to an abrupt halt. There, standing like a living wall of stone, was Raven, his singular gaze darting between the two of them. He seemed somewhat smaller without the large flowing cloak around him, though Sleet didn't know how he survived without it in the chill of the air.   
  
“Gossiping, ladies?” Raven asked, arching one dark brow.   
  
Sleet bristled, pushing past the taller man with a forceful shove. “Shut up,” he muttered under his breath.   
  
He felt more than saw Raven smirk behind him as he stepped out of the concealing trees and into the clearing just off the main road. It was nothing to brag about, but created for every traveler's use. A fire pit was cut into the ground, and several large logs had been dragged around the pit. Something appetizing bubbled up in the small pot hovering over the flame, steam rising above it and smoke curling into the overhanging needled trees.   
  
Dropping his bag to one of the logs, Sleet slid to the ground in front of it, leaning against the bark-stripped wood. Alaris tossed him an appraising look from her own perch, pausing in her careful reading out of yet another book. Sleet didn't want to know just how many she had brought with her on this urgent quest.   
  
“Enjoy your bath?” she asked, curled up comfortably with her heavy cloak draped around her. A page turned with a quiet swish.   
  
Sleet shrugged, holding cold fingers out to the fire. A thief was only as good as the deftness of his hands, and at the moment, his were too chilled to move properly. He had to take care of his hands; they were his livelihood. “It was cold.”   
  
Her lips tugged into a smile. “We are moving further north.” Not that he needed her to tell him that.   
  
“Nename is only a few more days' ride,” Raven added, returning to the campfire with Tungsten in tow. Raven's hair was wet, hanging damply over his shoulders, and he was missing the familiar eye patch, leaving his scars in plain, stark view.   
  
Dumping his saddlebag at the log he had selected for himself, Raven continued past them, striding to where he had left the horses. Karasu was currently napping atop Flurin's back, the mare not seeming to mind as she chewed her dinner. Not for the first time did Sleet wonder how Raven had acquired such a useful companion. Crows weren't exactly known for their friendliness and loyalty.   
  
Blue eyes sparkled merrily as Alaris glanced at Tungsten, who still looked as if he had taken an inadvertent fall into the river. “Don't say anything,” Tungsten said, though it was without any heat. “I still have some pride.”   
  
“Not a word,” she replied mischievously.   
  
Their teasing wasn't all that unusual, Sleet supposed. They'd gotten oddly close over the course of their journey. He supposed spending most of the time with their heads in the same book might have had something to do with it.   
  
Sleet sometimes drew up beside them, eavesdropping on their conversation, only to lose interest in what amounted to a history lesson.   
  
Sleet himself was bored silly. There was nothing to look at but miles of landscape, with nary a pocket to pick. Though a part of him was intrigued by the contents of his fellow traveler's pockets – he wasn't so gone as to call them friends – he hadn't tried yet. And they watched him too closely in the two small towns where they had rested and resupplied. If he wasn't so damn determined to find Frost, he would have long left them on their own. Maybe.   
  
The uncertainty stemmed entirely from the odd feeling that had been circulating in his gut since they left Gwartney. A sensation of being watched, eyes boring between his shoulder blades. It was a strong enough sense that it woke him during the night, his heart pounding and his body in a cold sweat. It made him look over his shoulder for no reason at all. A sense that something was happening, something was coming, and he couldn't stop it. The sensation only grew stronger the closer they got to Nename.   
  
“Sleet-san?”   
  
The thief blinked, coming out of his thoughtful reverie. Only one person called him like that, though he had told the mage several times to drop the honorifics. Shaking off the thoughts, Sleet straightened and glanced at Tungsten.   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Actually, it was I who wanted your attention,” Alaris said. Her hair was down from the high ponytail, falling over her shoulders in an effect that softened her features greatly. She looked less severe and a bit more womanly, not that any part of Sleet was interested in that. In a purely aesthetic sense, Alaris was a beautiful woman.  
  
Dragging his hands back from the warmth of the fire, he folded them in his lap. “Why?”   
  
The air to Alaris' left began to shiver in a familiar manner. A sense of power and pressure swept through the campsite, pummeling Sleet in the chest. It knocked the breath out of him and he gasped.   
  
_If you opened yourself up to me, this wouldn't hurt._  
  
Sleet groaned, squeezing his eyes against the unwanted voice. “Not again,” he muttered, rubbing fingers over his temple. “Shut up.”   
  
The sense of power rippled and flexed, before falling still, but running beneath the surface. Like the flow of water in a deep, fast river. Tumultuous across the rocky bottom, but more languid and smooth at the surface.   
  
Forcing his eyes open, Sleet was disappointed that he wasn't more surprised. Standing beside Alaris was Hephaestion, just as intimidating as he had been the first time Sleet had seen him. The look in his eyes was still piercing, but he regarded the others dismissively, his gaze for Alaris and Alaris alone.   
  
“Balaam's been unsealed,” he announced, as though they should all understand what that simple statement meant.   
  
Alaris certainly seemed to. She paled, visible even in the flickering orange light of the campfire, her mouth dropping in surprise. “How is that even possible? You said that he would never be able to free himself.”   
  
“No,” Hephaestion corrected with ageless patience. “We could not seal him permanently. We simply did not expect that he would find the necessary aid.”   
  
Tungsten's gaze darted between the two, confusion wrinkling his blank brow, where only the faintest impression of the markings remained. Tomorrow, they would be patiently inked once more. It was a ritual Sleet had seen every day for the past half-week.   
  
“What do you mean he's been 'unsealed'?” Tungsten asked, losing all interest in poking at the food stewing.   
  
This time, it wasn't Hephaestion who answered, but another voice. It was accompanied by a similar swell of power, slightly less weighty but just as ancient. It carried a happier clip to it, making Sleet think of birds flying free in a blue sky or young women dancing with flowing skirts to the beat of a drum.   
  
“You mean you haven't told them yet?” A cheerful, feminine voice demanded. And then the air next to Tungsten began to shimmer and swell, a form gradually taking shape.   
  
Tungsten gaped, as did most of his companions save for Alaris, as a young woman soon appeared at his side. She had the largest, brightest crimson eyes that Sleet had ever seen. Less the color of spilt blood and more like a ruby, or some other sparkling gem. Her face was cute and elfin, presenting a picture of innocence despite the power that radiated from her form. And topping it all off, pale green curls bounced jauntily across her shoulders.  
  
With an almost chastising glance at Hephaestion, the girl – or perhaps woman – bounced over to Tungsten, draping herself over his shoulders in a near-embrace. “Balaam broke a few rules before all the ones he's shattering to bits now. We had to punish him.”   
  
Tungsten blinked and really, that was Sleet's response, too. “Who are you?” Sleet blurted out before he could think of a more polite and gentler way to demand answers. She gave him the same sensation of power as Hephaestion, but no way this slip of a female was a goddess. It seemed so improbable. Impossible.   
  
She grinned at Sleet, dimples giving the impression of purity. “Introductions are in order, yes?” she questioned, nuzzling at Tungsten's cheek with her own. “Though Tungsten here knows me better than any of you?” In response to that, the mage blushed mightily, the redness tinting his cheeks visible even in the dark.   
  
Alaris' eyes widened impossibly large, a look of near-reverence taking over her expression. “Then you... you are his anima?” she asked, and Sleet could see the cogs turning in her mind, swiftly recalling all that she had read to match name to face. “You are the goddess Asclepius?”   
  
“The one and only!” the deity replied cheekily, winking once at the priestess. She squeezed Tungsten's arm affectionately. “We're a good match, don't you think?”  
  
“The best,” Alaris replied faintly, but it sounded half-hearted, as if she had been expecting more. And Sleet was in agreement.   
  
Hephaestion he could believe. The man's presence screamed dignity and respect. He radiated power and wisdom, his eyes speaking of millenia and things no mortal would ever see. His appearance was the epitome of godliness. But this giggling, grinning, slip of a female was the opposite of him in every way.   
  
Hephaestion cleared his throat noisily, like a rebuking father. “Asclepius, show some dignity.”   
  
The goddess rolled her eyes, but finally hauled herself off of Tungsten's shoulders, giving the blushing mage a little room to breathe. “Dignity is a waste of time,” she replied brashly, flicking one hand through her bouncy curls as the other settled on her waist, which Sleet realized was uncovered.   
  
She wore loose pants which gathered at the ankles, revealing the daintiness of her feet, covered only by the thinnest of sandals. Her abdomen was bare, her top coming to the ridge of her ribs and covering the length of her arms where it tapered to a point. The collar itself dipped into a shallow 'v'. In all, she looked like a dancer of some kind and nothing like a supposed goddess.   
  
“Is there any way we could get back to the original course of conversation?” Raven cut in bluntly. He plopped down onto the last log, gaze flickering between the two self-proclaimed deities.   
  
Tungsten coughed into his hand. “That would probably be best. Asclepius-sama, what did you mean about Balaam?”   
  
She shook her finger at him. “No honorifics, Tungsten,” the goddess replied before bouncing down to sit next to him, reclining comfortably on the log. Her toes stretched toward the warmth of the fire. “We sealed him. Or should I say we sealed his power. He was too much of a threat with it otherwise.”   
  
“Sealed?” Sleet repeated. “Wouldn't it have been better to just destroy him or something?”   
  
“Were it that easy then we'd have nothing to fear for current events,” Hephaestion replied gravely. Gnarled fingers curled tighter around his staff. “And the Creator's law is absolute. We cannot kill our own.”   
  
Tungsten frowned, thumbing his chin with interest as he pondered. “What did you do with it? The power you sealed?”   
  
“We put it on the mortal plane,” Asclepius answered, her scarlet eyes glittering. “And placed several seals on it, which only responded to other anima, though, of course, not Balaam's own.”   
  
Sleet was beginning to accrue an uncomfortable feeling deep in his chest, one that did not bode well for himself or this discussion. He remembered Frost. He remembered his strange behavior and the last item he had helped Frost to obtain. He recalled having to push through an invisible presence to simply touch the box and the item within. And he had ignored the loud shout within his mind that had warned him not to open the box.  
  
Tungsten's curiosity pressed onward. “What does it look like?”   
  
But Sleet didn't need the deities to answer for them. His hands clenched into fists as he looked at the flames, a feeling much like shame creeping into him.   
  
“It's little bigger than a child's marble,” he answered quietly, startling everyone with his response. He felt their gazes fall on him and his eyes narrowed in anger. “Black and grey swirl within the glass and it is cold to the touch. Burning cold.”   
  
Silence settled around the campfire until Tungsten broke it, disbelief etched into his features. “Sleet-san, you...?”  
  
“I didn't know what it was at the time,” Sleet snapped. He lifted his eyes to the rest of them. “I just thought it was another of his rare objects. I didn't even think anything odd about it when he insisted that I open it.”   
  
Raven snorted, dragging out his sword and settling it across his lap. The sound of stone scraping across the blade filled the campsite. “I almost wish that I could be surprised,” he muttered, more to himself than the others. Other than the odd comment, he listened more than partook in the conversation.   
  
Asclepius sighed, rubbing fingers over her forehead. “It's no use getting angry. We can't do anything about it now. It just means that this fight will be a little longer than expected.”   
  
“I don't get it,” Tungsten said, mouth pulled into a frown. “If he didn't have his power, how did he defeat the deities you claimed he has destroyed already?”   
  
This time it was Hephaestion who answered, lowering himself down next to Alaris as he settled in for what would possibly be a long tale. “The bonds between the animum are double-edged, making both sides stronger, and yet weaker all the same. Balaam is cowardly, attacking the newly awakened before they have time to merge completely, destroying them at their weakest.”   
  
“And how many exactly would that be?” Sleet questioned, forcing his fingers to unclench and focus on something, anything else really.   
  
Asclepius looked uncomfortable, sorrow dampening her cheer as she snuggled against Tungsten's side. “Five.” Her voice was quiet, like that spoken at some sort of holy site, or over a grave. Perhaps she had been particularly close to one of the fallen deities.   
  
_It would be nice to join the conversation._  
  
The world around him seemed to swell, blurring around the edges. The sound of the others' conversation drifted away, as if being shouted across a faint distance. And Sleet had the most distant sensation of being pulled away, his body sinking deeper into a paralyzing fugue.   
  
Sleet gritted his teeth, focusing a glare inward at the uncomfortable sensation. 'What will it take to make you shut up?' he demanded internally, tired of having this voice nagging at him.   
  
He didn't want to accept that he was like Alaris and Tungsten, that he had this deity attached to him. It made no sense. He was the runt of the litter, and a thief at that. Heroicqualities were in short supply for him.   
  
_Accept me._  
  
The thief snorted. 'Like hell. Pick someone else.'   
  
There was the equivalent of a mental, aggravated sigh. He imagined that the disembodied voice was rolling his disembodied eyes. _Would that I could. You are more difficult than any human I've ever been bonded to._  
  
'I'll consider that a compliment.'   
  
The fact that he was now carrying a conversation with the voice in his head should have worried Sleet. But the sight of the two strange beings sitting around the campfire with the rest of them mere mortals had somewhat dampened his 'oh shit' reflex. He felt mostly numb, and wondered when his life had turned into a fairae tale.   
  
_What is it about this that terrifies you?_ The voice continued, shifting into something a bit more serious and drifting away from the almost playful banter. _Most mortals would be enthused to have such power at their disposal._  
  
Sleet shook his head. 'Most mortals don't steal for a living. I like to be different.'   
  
_Try contrary._  
  
'Excuse me if having voices in my head that I can't see doesn't exactly turn me into a merry burst of sunshine,' Sleet retaliated, his irritation growing as the spot of pain in the back of his head blossomed into a sharp throb. 'I don't like having decisions made for me.'   
  
He was given the mental equivalent of a stare. And Sleet received the faintest impression that the eyes glaring at him were gold, and like the metal, sharp and intoxicating.   
  
The world suddenly turned upside down on him. The forest and the fire bled away, shifting into shades of black and grey. The log beneath him dissolved and Sleet tumbled backward, displaying all of Tungsten's grace as he hit something somewhat soft and springy, like a really thick carpet. A sense of warmth enclosed him, no longer the biting chill of mountain air. Sleet groaned, peeling his eyes open.  
  
He gaped. Where once he had been sitting outside, he was now within a large room. The walls were made of blocked stone, carefully fitted together, and covered with tapestries depicting bloody and fierce battles. A blazing fireplace took up one entire wall, the hearth empty of decoration. Bookshelves scattered around the room, overflowing with tomes and scrolls, and in the blank spots of the wall, weapons were on display.   
  
Blinking, Sleet rose to his feet, feeling cloth brushing over his suddenly bare toes. His clothes had changed somehow, settling into a black robe that was gathered at the waist by a thick cord. His fingers plucked at the thick, cotton fabric trying to convince himself that this couldn't possibly be real.   
  
“But it is,” a voice answered from behind him, sounding strangely familiar and yet foreign all the same. It lacked the more recognizable hollow echo, and Sleet faintly realized it was because he heard it with his ears rather than echoing within his head.   
  
He whirled around, finding that a man looming behind him, well over his own short height. They looked to be about the same age, golden eyes sharp and inquisitive while short, black hair spiked in a messy style across his head. He was dressed much like Sleet, though his robe had the added benefit of a hood that currently lay flat against his back. The stranger was pale, giving the impression of fragility, though the power in his gaze was enough for Sleet to think otherwise.   
  
“Who are you?” the thief demanded, watching the other man warily. His every instinct was on edge. Where had the others gone?   
  
The unnamed stranger tipped his head to the side, the tiniest of smirks pulling at his lips. “If you listened to yourself, you would know who I am.”   
  
“No riddles,” Sleet spat, hand dropping to his side where the change of attire had also meant he had none of his hidden weapons. Damn it. He felt naked and Sleet didn't like that feeling. “How did I get here?”   
  
“This is my home,” the man answered with a faint gesture, taking one slow step forward. “Yet you belong here as much as I.”   
  
Sleet backed up, his knees hitting a low stool and nearly causing him to trip. He didn't like having to look up at anyone and being forced to do so here, wherever here was, irritated him. He scowled, trying to draw himself up straight.   
  
“Where is here?” His gaze flicked around, looking for an exit or a window or anything that he could be using for an escape. Despite feeling no threat or danger, Sleet didn't like being trapped. And it galled that not even his thief's eye could spot anything like an escape route.  
  
The stranger made a sound of infinite patience being stretched thin. “Elysion. Or to be more precise, Tartarus within Elysion. Think of it as a benefit.”   
  
Elysion... the name reverberated in Sleet's mind, sounding familiar. He sifted through his memories and his schooling, connecting it to a obscure lesson his father had forced him to take. The home of the gods. And Tartarus was the gate to hell. Sleet certainly didn't remember dying and as much as he hated to admit it, a part of him suspected that this had something to do with the whole animus bit Alaris had been shoving at him.   
  
Sleet groaned, shaking his head with the sudden onset of a throbbing pulse in his temples. “Damn it, you brought me here, you bastard.” He thought that maybe he should try and find out his anima's name, but he also really didn't want to. That would be like consenting and Sleet wasn't ready to do that.  
  
“You could say that,” the deity – Sleet recognized him for that much at least – agreed, and inclined his head. “Why won't you accept this?”   
  
Blowing air out of sheer frustration, Sleet turned his back on the god. “I don't believe in fate,” he replied shortly, half-lie and half-truth. “I like my choices.”   
  
He felt, more than saw, the god's amusement. “Some semblance of a mortal's desire, no doubt.”   
  
“I am mortal, in case you haven't noticed,” Sleet snapped, his own forbearance running dangerously thin. He wanted out of Elysion, however the hell he had gotten there, and now.   
  
The dimmest sensation of fingers skittering across his mind made Sleet jerk in surprise, though there was nothing physical around him. He felt indignant and wanted to shout, to express his anger, but in the same moment, he jerked.   
  
Not just him, not just his body, but something else entirely. He felt the presence of a warm-cool hand on his face, smooth and gentle. And a voice called to him, called his name in a worried tone. The fireplace blurred, a streak of crimson and orange.   
  
“Sleet?”   
  
He dropped, fell, something, and then there was hard wood beneath his ass and the harsh breath of chill air against his back. He felt disoriented, a curl of nausea growing in his gut, and then Sleet was staring into cerise eyes, a hand cupping his cheek. He felt tired, pulled thin, his body straining toward sleep with a desire unprecedented to him. It was as if he had just run for miles, chased by creatures beyond his worst nightmares.   
  
“Sleet?”   
  
Her lips – Asclepius, he recognized now – moved again and Sleet realized that it had been she that was calling to him. He stirred, very reluctantly, body moving as though he hadn't been within it for quite a while. Sleet blinked, feeling like his eyelids scraped over his eyeballs.   
  
The look on her face instantly morphed into relief, though Sleet hadn't said a thing. She grinned and glanced over her shoulder. “He's fine!” the goddess called, stroking her palm over his cheek before withdrawing it. “Just a little mindwalk.”   
  
“A little?” Sleet demanded, but it came out more of a wheeze. He sucked in a heavy breath, feeling as if he hadn't honestly breathed in a long time, and promptly coughed. His hands were clenched on the log at his side and they creaked as he unpeeled them from the barkless stump.   
  
“What was that?” Tungsten asked, sound gradually returning to Sleet's clouded ears.   
  
The female deity gave Sleet one more critical look before bouncing back to Tungsten's side, dropping to the log with a little spin and twist. “He was conversing with his anima is all. In his mind.”   
  
“I didn't think it was supposed to be dangerous,” Alaris murmured, casting Hephaestion a questioning look.   
  
Rubbing at his forehead, where an ache lingered, Sleet agreed. He really, really wanted to hurt his so-called anima at the moment. It had to be all his fault.   
  
“It wouldn't be,” Hephaestion replied with a pointed glance of reproach in the thief's direction, “if he wasn't so intent on blocking out the bond. Think of it as attempting to dam a river. Eventually the water will break through with disastrous consequences.”   
  
Sleet growled low in his throat. He didn't appreciate being talked over as though he were just a child. “I didn't exactly ask to be dragged into Elysion.”   
  
“You've left him no other choice,” Asclepius said, her lips pulling into a cute frown as she shook a finger at him. “If you won't listen then he has to do what it takes to make you see reason.”   
  
He wanted to argue, just because he was tired of everyone looking at him like everything was his fault, but before he could, Hephaestion cleared his throat noisily. “In the interest of haste, let that aside for now. As we were saying before, Sleet, we have to make a detour.”   
  
The thief blinked, wondering just how much time he had missed. A quick glance around the campfire proved that no one had really moved recently, but the fire was banking lower. And the cooking pot seemed half-empty. Had it really been that long?   
  
“Detour?”   
  
Alaris inclined her head, pulling her blanket tighter around the chilling wind. “Another animum awoke recently. And he's broadcasting strongly. We have to get to him before Balaam does.”   
  
“Which means a short stop before we get to Nename,” Tungsten added, dipping a spoon back into a bowl and bringing the stew up to his lips. It was a sight that reminded Sleet he'd yet to eat, his stomach growling in agreement.   
  
“Where?” the thief asked, scooting forward to serve himself. Truthfully, he was hungry enough that nearly anything would be tasty.  
  
The sound of Raven's honing had long since ended and the mercenary stirred, throwing an idle log into the fire and watching it flare hungrily at the new fuel. “Brulee.”   
  
Unfortunately, Sleet knew that town. It was small, barely worth a visit. Home to craftsmen, tapestry-weavers and the like. It was more of a community than a town and had nothing worthy of being stolen. In other words, boring. But it was far enough north that snow was a frequent occurrence, and large enough that they didn't have to worry about too much inbreeding. Perhaps their newly discovered animus would be some kind of useful. Best of all, it was a little over a day's ride from their current location. If they hit stride, they could be there by sundown.   
  
He slumped back to his seat, choosing the ground rather than the log and leaning his back against the wood. The stew still steamed appetizingly and Sleet scooped up some of the thick broth, the strong meaty flavor rolling over his tongue. Whoever had put this together, he commended them. There was a faint taste of something herbal as well, something that rounded out the flavor. Delicious.   
  
“Which means we rise early,” Alaris declared, her gaze flicking over the other mortals. “There is no need for a watch. Hephaestion will warn us if necessary.”   
  
“I can, too,” Asclepius added, nudging Tungsten with her elbow as he scraped the last out of his bowl. “I'll come back to talk soon.” With a parting kiss to the mage's cheek, she abruptly popped out of his existence. There and gone again, just like that. It boggled Sleet's mind.   
  
“I will always be here,” Hephaestion added in his grave and reserved tone. Then he too vanished, leaving the faintest sense of a twinkle behind him. The oppressive feeling of power went with him, giving Sleet the ability to breathe a bit more freely.   
  
“We leave early in the morning,” Raven said, pulling out his own blanket and pillowing it behind his head. “Be ready.”   
  
When had Raven had been made leader of their quest to save the world? Everyone seemed inclined to obey Raven, settling down comfortably as Sleet finished off his own meal. He had only one small saving grace. For the moment, his anima had stopped trying to talk to him. And the headache had vanished with Asclepius' gentle touch.   
  
Settling against the log, Sleet let the coming silence of the camp wash over him, staring into the flames as he scooped up the last of the stew.   
  
Frost had used him. For some reason, that thought seemed to reverberate in his mind. If what the others were saying was true, than Frost had used him. Had known what and who he was, had known he needed Sleet. Had he planned on Sleet's aid from day one or had it just been a pleasant addition?   
  
He had to know. Sleet didn't like the feeling of being used. It left him wondering if money should have been left on the dresser. If he hadn't been paid the proper price for his work.   
  
Disgruntled and more than annoyed that these people he barely knew had put thoughts into his head about a man he knew a hell of a lot better, Sleet popped the last bite into his mouth. He set the bowl off to the side, to be rinsed in the morning, and curled up with his own blanket, settling in for sleep. He watched the smoke curl up from the fire and disappear among the leaves above them heading for the starry sky beyond the canopy.   
  
Sleep was ever the elusive mistress.   
  


* * *


	11. The Advent of Courage - Chapter Six

Brulee was exactly as Sleet remembered it, with the exception of a few more farms surrounding the pathetic excuse for a town. The residents moved at their own pace, hurried in nothing as they went about their business. There was a hum to the air, a low rhythm that seemed soaked into the earth. No doubt the sound of dozens of looms in motion all at once.   
  
Shivering, and cursing the cold, Sleet wrapped his cloak tighter around himself and dismounted from his horse. He noticed that the others did much the same. It seemed wrong, somehow, to ride into town, especially since the streets were so small and cornered.   
  
He tipped his head up, glancing at the dull, grey sky. The air tasted and smelled of snow, a fresh flavor like the liquescent bite of ice or the sharp cold of mountain melt. He wouldn't be surprised in the slightest if it snowed later. The air was brimming with the sensation of it.   
  
“Can you feel him?” Raven asked, disturbing Sleet's thoughtful moment. The mercenary had paused to regard Alaris with his patented stare, one hand locked around Flurin's reins.   
  
Karasu had taken to the skies above them, circling as though trying to get a layout of the area for his master's sake.   
  
Alaris shook her head, the thin lines in her face making her appear much older. Worn out. “No. Either he's noticed that he was broadcasting or his anima has shielded him. We'll have to do this the old-fashioned way until he makes his presence known.”   
  
“But he is here?”   
  
Alaris' tone became tight, apparently Raven could annoy even her. “He is. My senses aren't that dulled. I can't help that unlike some of the others, he has apparently accepted his anima with little argument or fight.”   
  
Raven snorted. “How convenient,” he replied and tugged on Flurin's reins, urging the horse to move. “We'll find an inn first, if there even is one in this pathetic excuse for a town.”   
  
“You are too negative, Raven-san,” Tungsten admonished, a frown marring his features. His nose was red from the cold. “A bit of kindness wouldn't hurt.”   
  
“Kindness is a waste,” Raven said, sweeping his gaze from side to side in search of an elusive lodge for the night, or possibly the next few days. All depending on how long it took them to find this animum.   
  
Sleet sighed, feeling restless and itchy to be out on his own. He had been trapped in their presence for far too long and though he knew there wasn't much of worth in this town, he needed to poke around. His thieving instincts were growing dull. Sleet couldn't have that; it was his livelihood. And he needed to be out of their shadows, with the uneasy sensation of Hephaestion and Asclepius constantly looking over him.   
  
He thrust his reins in Tungsten's direction, the mage giving him a confused-concerned look. “Sleet?”   
  
“I'm going to do a little reconnaissance,” he said, shifting his heavy cloak around him for easier movement. “Take care of my horse for me?”  
  
Tungsten watched him for a moment, and Sleet almost swore that red eyes were staring back at him through the mage's green ones, before nodding and taking the reins from the thief. “Do you know what you're looking for?”   
  
Sleet patted his side to make sure he still had his daggers. “No, but I'm sure it'll come to me,” he said, turning on his heel and contemplating which direction to take first. Not that there was really much to explore.   
  
The buildings were dull and sagging in their foundations. The road was heavily churned by the passing of horses. Even the people themselves seemed to pass by with a lifeless, habitual pace. He could only count two dozen buildings off hand, most of them lacking distinctive sign-posts.  
  
“Do try to keep your hands to yourself,” Alaris said, pulling to a stop beside them. “It would be a waste of good coin to bail you from the jailhouse.”   
  
Sleet rolled his eyes, pulling on his gloves to tighten them around his fingers. “I'm better than you give me credit. I don't get caught.” The last was a bit of a lie, but neither of them needed to know that. “I'll catch up to you guys later.”   
  
And with that, Sleet was gone, melding into the crowd. If they said anything to his departure, he didn't know it. Honestly, Sleet felt stifled by their presence, much like he did when spending too much time with Yaris and Usoff.   
  
_Perhaps your fear is in becoming unnecessarily attached?_  
  
Sleet let loose a sound of aggravation, startling a passing stranger with his growl. 'Can I have a single thought to myself?' he demanded, wishing that there was some kind of escape he could latch onto. 'And don't pull me into your world. I have things to do.'   
  
_I'm sure_ , his anima replied. Sleet loathed having the god in his mind. It left so little as a surprise.   
  
Annoyed, Sleet tried to focus on something else. Unfortunately, there was so little else to do in Brulee. His fingers dipped into a few distracted pockets, finding nothing new but an interesting trinket that he pocketed, simply because it fascinated him. The gossip was garden-variety, with no mention of the attacks on other cities. Brulee was probably too small to get much in the way of news.   
  
Sleet crossed the main road, heading into the smaller side paths and streets. The sound of clacking looms grew louder, along with the sharp press of dried woods. Basket-weavers. To be expected of an artisan town. The strangers he passed smiled and gave waves of greeting. How quaint. The suffocating feeling continued to grow until Sleet felt as if he were choking on it. Something was uneasy and uncertain, pinging on the edge of his senses. He felt disconnected.   
  
He wandered for the better part of several hours, poking around in the varied shops and liberating many strangers of their personal effects. Sleet stopped to watch a few artisans at work – a painter creating a landscape, a group of musicians playing a very familiar tale, and a wood carver. He paused to admire the latter for longer than the others, his mind recalling for him Frost's skill in his hobby. His hand dropped to his pouch, fingering the small wolf that was still within his possession.   
  
Sleet kept his eyes and ears open for the animus, but since he had nothing to go by, he found nothing. Without a description, or a handy anima appearing at his side, he didn't know what to look for. And the voice in his head was being less than helpful. Sarcastic commentary seemed to be the extent of its repertoire.   
  
It was dark by the time Sleet returned to the inn, a modest two-story building with a small conversation area on the first floor. There were few patrons sitting amongst the tables, talking quietly to themselves. One he recognized immediately, Tungsten by himself with a variety of papers scattered around him. Inkwell and quill were at one side.   
  
“Sleet!” he called, giving the thief no option of pretending he hadn't seen Tungsten and hurrying on to his room.   
  
He sighed internally and weaved his way to the table, ignoring the looks some of the other patrons were giving him. Less friendly than the strangers on the street, but not dangerous. It was hot in this room, the blazing fireplace cooking him as much as it chased away the chill seeping in from outside.   
  
“Find out anything?” Tungsten asked, waving Sleet towards one of the empty chairs at his table.   
  
Sleet shook his head, silently declining the offer. “Nothing. Not that I really expected to. We don't know what the guy looks like, what he does, nothing. Kind of hard to find anything.” He fidgeted.   
  
Tungsten looked disappointed, tapping the end of his quill on the table and leaving little ink splatters behind. He already had a few stains on the ends of his sleeves. “Alaris-san is still looking. She's trying to stumble onto his signature and follow from there. Raven-san's in his room.”   
  
He resisted the urge to sneer at just the sound of the mercenary's name. “Thanks,” Sleet said instead, and shifted again. “Where's my room?”   
  
“Ah, right! I nearly forgot.” Tungsten dipped a hand into his pocket, ignoring the ink on his fingers, and pulled out a small key. “It's the third one on the right when you go up the stairs.”   
  
Sleet took the key, forcing a smile onto his lips. “Thanks. Any idea what the plans are for tomorrow.”   
  
“We can't leave until we find the animus,” Tungsten answered, returning his focus to his papers and the strange writing etched into the parchment. Perhaps it had something to do with magic.   
  
Sleet had expected as much. Now that he was here settled in this town, with its weird oppressing aura, Sleet had the itchy urge to leave. Like there was something watching him. A thief's instincts to escape. He had learned to trust them. Sleet was torn.   
  
He made a noncommittal sound in his throat, turning away from Tungsten. “Hmm, thanks. Night, Tungsten.”   
  
“Good night, Sleet-san.”   
  
The thief didn't bother to correct him on the honorifics.   
  
He found the stairs tucked away in a corner and ascended. The hallway was silent and still, a few lamps within glass houses flickering as they lit the corridor. The carpet was thin and patched where it lined the floor, and Sleet's room was exactly where Tungsten had indicated.  
  
Sleet stepped into the dim room, thief senses twitching. Only one lamp burned near the window, making most of the furniture visible, but bathed in shadow. Something about the moment felt familiar, in a deja vu sort of way, but Sleet shook it off.   
  
He unclasped his cloak, draping it over the back of the chair tucked just to the left of the door.   
  
The curtains were drawn on the window, making the inkiness of the night seem all that more enclosing. Sleet didn't like that one bit. Removing his knives, he set them on a small table in the room and reached for the tie to the curtains. Something reflected in the glass behind him, just a flash of color in the dim, and Sleet's eyes widened.   
  
He had no time to react, someone grabbing him from behind. One hand placed firmly over his mouth as the other snatched his left arm, twisting it against his back. Sleet struggled, but his assailant pulled higher on his arm, putting a painful strain on his shoulder.   
  
He cried out before a palm covered his mouth, muffling the noise. Sleet was pushed forward and his free hand snapped out, jarring against the thick-paned glass of the window, cool to the touch.  
  
His heart beat a strange rhythm in his chest. He felt a warm body press up against him from behind, taller and a bit broader. And then warmth puffed against his ear.   
  
“Sleet.”   
  
He recognized the voice in the same instant that the shifting of his assailant made his face visible in the reflection of the glass. Sleet stopped struggling, his body slackening, and the hand fell away from his mouth. It dropped down to settle on his hip, the other grip loosening enough that his shoulder didn't feel as if it were being wrenched from its socket.   
  
“What are you doing here?” Sleet demanded, the brilliant question the first to leave his lips as the hand slid from his hip to his groin, rubbing a palm over the softened flesh beneath. Flesh that was already beginning to harden and rise at the familiar voice.   
  
A tongue flicked out across his ear. “Always ready for me, hmm?” Frost avoided the question, pulling Sleet more firmly against him until their bodies were nearly melded.  
  
Their image reflected in the glass of the window. Sleet's insides roiled and he abruptly grabbed the drapery cord with his free hand, yanking the curtain shut. A small sense of satisfaction washed through him as the reflection was covered, enclosing them in the privacy of the room.   
  
He could feel Frost against his buttocks, however, half-hard and wanting. Desire stirred, uncoiling from where Sleet had buried it the past week. “They're looking for you,” he said, mind refusing to connect logically at the moment. All this searching, and there Frost was, right behind him, as if he'd been lying in wait.   
  
“When are they not?” Frost said, amusement etched into his tone. His tongue curled around Sleet's ear, a wet nuisance, before his teeth took over. He gently bent down on the shell, an erogenous zone that shot straight to Sleet's cock.   
  
Sleet's free hand fumbled, gripping Frost's arm. He had thought briefly to stop the other man, but other emotions took over and instead, he held Frost's hand in place. The pressure on his rising length was intoxicating, as was Frost's scent. It seemed to surround Sleet, a strange mix of ash and sulphur and blood and... juniper? Sleet wanted to taste so badly that he bit his lip, wondering where the sudden urgency had come from.   
  
“Did you really do it?”   
  
Fingers worked at the laces to Sleet's breeches, undoing the knots and pulling them loose. “Hmm. Does it matter?” Frost asked, sliding beneath the fabric and curling his fingers around Sleet's cock.   
  
He let out a moan before he could stop himself, hips jerking into Frost's fingers. A part of him wanted to fight, to break away from Frost's influence. But a larger part of him was quickly melting into familiar touches.   
  
Frost's lips moved to the side of his neck as he released his hold on Sleet's wrist, dropping it down to slide under his tunic. “Quiet now. Wouldn't want your guard dog to come in.”   
  
Guard dog?   
  
Confused, Sleet tried to interpret the nickname before realization hit him. Raven must have been in the next room. An unwelcome growl echoed in his throat at the thought of the man. It was washed away by a moan of pleasure however.   
  
Frost's hand palmed his stomach, sliding up toward his chest. And how had he known about Raven anyway?   
  
Sleet's thoughts were disconnecting. And there was a low buzz on the back of his senses, like the murmur of conversation in a crowded room. He couldn't make out a single word and it was annoying, the drone of insects echoing on his brain. Sleet ripped control out from somewhere, knowing he couldn't just succumb. He had questions and he needed answers.   
  
“What... are you doing here?” Sleet managed to grit out as a flush of heat spread through his body. His hips took up a rhythm to Frost's stroking.   
  
“Isn't it obvious?” Frost asked, his hand slipping from under Sleet's tunic to pushing down his breeches until they sat below the curves of his buttocks.   
  
Exploring fingers cupped Sleet's scrotum, trailing his fingers over the bare flesh. The younger thief felt Frost's clothing against his bare ass and he shivered. His free hand clenched into a fist, his other squeezing tightly onto Frost's arm. Goddammit but Frost was right. He was a slut. Because he wanted this more than he wanted damn answers and it was pissing him off.   
  
“Stop,” Sleet murmured without any force behind it, a tongue devouring his neck and hands working him without any mercy. “We need to talk.”   
  
“You don't mean that.” Teeth bit down on Sleet's neck, gently at first and then with added pressure. The pain and pleasure mixed deliciously, and Sleet moaned loudly, one of Frost's hands quickly rising to cover his mouth.   
  
A tongue flicked across the impressions of teeth in his skin. “Too loud, Sleet,” he warned in that low, commanding tone that never failed to arouse Sleet. It shot straight to his cock.   
  
As if in agreement with his words, there was the sudden noise of a fist banging against a wall. “Jack off quieter!” Raven's voice bellowed from the other room.  
  
Shame and irritation battled for dominance as Sleet's cheeks warmed. He swallowed down the cries that wanted to break free, biting his lip to keep them contained. He wouldn't give Raven the satisfaction. He wouldn't.   
  
Frost's fingers abandoned his teasing touches and dipped lower, tickling at Sleet's muscled entrance. He pressed back against the welcome touch, feeling blood surge through his veins. Heat spread across his entire body, pooling in his stomach and he wished that Frost would stop teasing him. He wanted so badly that he ached.   
  
“That's more like it,” Frost murmured in his ear, a wash of warm air that sent a stream of goosebumps down Sleet's spine.   
  
His palm left Sleet's mouth, cupping his chin and directing his head upward, baring his throat.  
  
Sleet sucked in a breath, wishing he could sound more firm. “Don't patronize me.”   
  
Frost didn't respond, mouth making little biting nips on Sleet's exposed throat. He rocked his hips against Sleet's backside, and the smaller thief could feel the hard press of Frost's arousal against his exposed buttocks. He clenched in anticipation, eyes falling closed. Somewhere, he remembered that there were things he was supposed to be asking.   
  
“They said you were an animus.”   
  
“They?” Frost repeated with an amused chuckle. His free hand plucked at Sleet's tunic, finding his nipples beneath the fabric and giving them a sharp pinch. “Does it matter if I were?”   
  
Sleet groaned low in his throat, lifting his hand to tangle it in Frost's hair, more to encourage than to deter. “Yes.”   
  
“Don't you mean to ask whether you are one as well?”   
  
Skilled hands left him, and he felt Frost plucking at the strings to his own trousers, freeing himself from the confines of his clothes. Frost's length pressed against bare skin, leaving a streak of precum behind.   
  
Rationality warred with want and Sleet wondered how he was even able to think at all. “Goddamn it, Frost, just answer the question.”   
  
Teeth nipped at his ear. “So belligerent. Is this what my absence has done for your discipline?”   
  
Sleet's mouth drooped in annoyance, but before he could say anything, two fingers pressed to his lips, sliding through them and into his mouth. They lay flat against his tongue, rubbing against the slick appendage. Sleet's mind buzzed white.  
  
“Suck,” Frost whispered in his ear, a sibilant command, and Sleet's thoughts skittered in a thousand different directions. Even the buzz on the back of his mind had faded to a dull pulse of annoyance.  
  
He closed his lips around Frost's fingers and stroked his tongue along them, moistening the digits. He could feel Frost rocking against his ass, sliding down the crease tauntingly. Frost's other hand was on his hip, squeezing rhythmically as Frost dropped his mouth to the base of his neck, where it met the shoulder, mouthing it. Frost scraped his teeth along the exposed skin and Sleet shuddered, moaning around the fingers.   
  
He flicked his tongue across them again, but that was when Frost withdrew them. He dragged the pads of his fingers across Sleet's lips, leaving a smear of spit behind, before lowering them between their bodies. Frost circled Sleet's entrance before pressing both fingers in at once, causing Sleet to arch his back as a groan escaped him. Pain and pleasure, intermixing, swirling through his conscious.   
  
Sleet clenched around the invasion, trying to pull Frost deeper as he rocked onto the fingers. He was so hard that it ached and he wanted. By the Creator, he wanted. Sleet's free hand dropped to his own arousal, stroking himself slowly. Frost didn't protest to the action, and Sleet luxuriated in the pleasure that raced through his body. His belly twisted and warmed, body craving that sharp spike of release.   
  
The touch withdrew from him. “I apologize for being unprepared,” Frost panted in a ragged tone, smearing his fingers through his precum and sliding it over his arousal. “But I don't think you mind, do you Sleet?”   
  
“Just do it,” Sleet replied. He could handle pain. In fact, he welcomed it, wanting a return to the familiar after the madness of the past weeks. He craved normality, or whatever passed as it.   
  
“As you wish.”   
  
There was only the barest pause before Frost positioned the head of his arousal at Sleet's entrance, and then pushed past the first ring of resistance. Sleet gritted his teeth against the stinging burn, a sharp growl passing his lips.   
  
He squeezed his grip on Frost's hair, surprised by how much the older man was letting him get away with. “I'm not something delicate,” he demanded, not wanting a rehash of their last time fucking. He didn't want to be left with a confusing goodbye.   
  
The grasp on his hip became bruising. “You are fire, dear Sleet. Fire and chains,” Frost replied, and thrust himself deeper, filling Sleet to the core before hecould even think to ponder that strange comment.   
  
Sleet cried out, unable to stop the sound, as he felt Frost throbbing within him. It was dizzying, how sharply the pain crested until Frost's fingers joined his on his length. Frost helped him find a rhythm in counterpoint to his deep, probing thrusts. Frost shifted his weight, angling himself, and pleasure joined the pain. Sleet floundered in the dichotomy of it.   
  
Sleet was hovered close to the edge. It had been more than a week since he'd had any gratification, personal or otherwise, and just the fact that it was Frost made it that much more appealing.   
  
He felt Frost's lips drop back to the side of his head, breathing hotly in his ear. Sleet's desire spiked. His breathing came in sharp pants, body rocking between Frost's cock and Frost's hands, unable to decide which he liked better.   
  
Their hands moved together, stroking and squeezing Sleet's cock and he gasped, head lolling back onto Frost's shoulder. Frost turned his head, capturing Sleet's mouth and slipping his tongue past his lips. Their tongues twisted together hungrily, and Sleet was again overwhelmed by Frost's flavor. A strange mix of blood, ash, and brandy, washed down with something blackberry. Too many flavors to absorb at once.   
  
Frost rocked forward and Sleet groaned, fingers pulling as he felt his release curl in his belly. It lashed at the limits of his control, and he abandoned all pretense of keeping quiet. Frost's tongue pressed against his, demanding and consuming, his grip like an iron band on Sleet's hip. There was an obvious claim in the speed of Frost's strokes.   
  
Sleet's orgasm washed over him, the shaking spreading to his limbs as he spilled over their combined grip. He clenched down on Frost's cock, wringing a moan from the older thief.   
  
Frost broke away from the kiss, teeth clamping on the side of his neck and leaving impressions to join the first. He felt Frost jerk behind him, and then Frost was riding the wave of his own pleasure.   
  
Sleet forced his wavering stance to remain firm as they lingered in the remaining pulses of pleasure. Sleet's hand was sticky with his own release, the smell of sex thick in the air.   
  
Frost swiped a tongue over the bite he left on Sleet's shoulder as if in apology, licking up the trickle of blood before straightening. He brought their combined grip upward, releasing Sleet's retreating arousal and bringing it up to Sleet's lips in silent command.   
  
Sleet obliged him, opening his mouth and taking the fingers inside. He licked them clean, the taste of his own release a strange turn on. Frost withdrew, his hand stroking down Sleet's side. It made him shiver, his body awakening with new desire. He wanted again, he wanted over and over. Sleet felt consumed by that want.   
  
“I will have you again,” Frost murmured in Sleet's ear, licking the shell of it.   
  
Sleet turned to look at him, for the first time getting a forward view of tFrost's face. Bathed in shadows, with longer strands of his hair brushing across his forehead, Frost looked like a different man. His eyes were dark and guarded, and in that moment, Sleet knew that part of what he had been told was true. There was a power there, lingering beneath the surface. And looking into Frost's gaze, he swore he caught a glimpse of something ageless peering out from behind it.   
  
Sleet shook his head, dispelling the strange feeling. Instead, he reached for his tunic tugging it over his head. It was much of an answer as Frost would take and he surged forward, one hand gripping Sleet's chin and closing his mouth over Sleet's. The other pushed his trousers the rest of the way down, where they tangled with Sleet's boots. It was a rough kiss, full of claiming and desire. Frost's lips covered Sleet's so strongly that he tasted blood; it might have been his own.   
  
From there, it was a blur of motion and touching. Clothing dripped to the ground from the both of them and then they collapsed on the bed in a tangle of naked limbs, bathed in sweat. Sleet gave up on asking questions, gave up on demanding answers. He had a flitting thought that this may be the last time he saw Frost in control of himself, and then it disappeared as Frost surged inside of him once more.   
  
Pleasure bled into pain bled into pleasure and the night dropped out from beneath him.   
  


* * *

  
  
Sleet jerked awake, unsure what had caused him to be disturbed from his deep sleep. His thoughs felt stuffed with cotton as he peered into the darkness of his room. There was another rough banging sound that he recognized to be knocking before his door flew open without so much as an invitation.   
  
“Get your ass out of bed, Sleet,” Raven demanded, barging into the room. “We're under attack.”   
  
Blinking, Sleet tried to decipher this bit of information. He felt tired, body worn out and sore for reasons that seemed a bit fuzzy at the moment. “What?”   
  
Raven glanced around suspiciously, wrinkling his nose. “Fuck, it smells like sex in here,” he muttered before glaring at Sleet. “Get dressed, brat. Frost's brought his friends again.” With a sneer, he was gone, storming from the room as though he had been personally offended.   
  
Understanding dawned on Sleet, last remembering Frost being in his room. He had said something as Sleet was slipping into unconsciousness, but he couldn't remember it.   
  
Frost had been here and Sleet hadn't gotten any answers.   
  
Sleet forced himself from the bed, tumbling from the tangle of sheets he had made around himself. A twinge went up his spine and Sleet winced.   
  
“Damn it,” he grumbled under his breath, searching the floor for his clothing and finding it scattered.   
  
Feeling as if he'd only been asleep for an hour at the most, Sleet wasted several minutes fumbling about his room as he located clothing. Boots, leggings, tunic, belt, daggers, all of it was tugged on with little efficiency. He yawned, rubbed at his eyes, and stumbled toward the window. He remembered tugging the curtains shut the night before and pulled them open once more, a dim sunlight greeting him.   
  
Sleet gaped, jerking into alertness with very little grace. It wasn't dim because it was early morning or even late night, it was dim because smoke rose into the sky from a few streets over. A thick cloud of ash and dust, with flames licking over rooftops and hungrily seeking the next building. He could make out winged shapes clogging the sky, swooping down into the streets and then he registered the sound of screaming, faint through the glass.   
  
Sleet whirled away from the window. He scooped up his pouch, tied it onto his belt, and careened out the door, nearly colliding with Tungsten.   
  
Only Sleet's usual agility saved the both of them from crashing to the ground as he grabbed hold of the clumsy man and kept them on their feet. “Who's attacking?” Sleet demanded.   
  
Tungsten shook his head, face pale and brow drawn tight with worry. “Alaris says it is Balaam again. He's after the animus we came here to find.”   
  
“It's your special friend, too,” Raven said, appearing at the head of the stairs. His grey eye pinned Sleet down accusingly. “Nice of him to stop by.”   
  
“You don't know that,” Sleet denied, though his conscious niggled with guilt. Frost was here, had been here the night before. “You don't know him.”   
  
Raven snorted, “I know enough,” he declared, and his eyes slid past Sleet to Alaris, who was stepping out of her room.  
  
“Balaam is here,” she said. Her face was cool, expressionless, calm despite the chaos that raged outside the inn. “We must find the animus before he does.”   
  
Sleet felt the power ripple in the hallway before he saw Hephaestion blink into existence at Alaris' side. “The animus is already fighting,” Hephaestion said. “He and his anima.”   
  
“That shouldn't be too hard to find,” Raven said. “Do you know the anima?”   
  
Hephaestion inclined his head. “She is Sybaris, the blood of Lieve.”   
  
Sleet blinked in confusion, the description vaguely disturbing. He shivered, drawing into himself. She could control blood? That was disgusting.   
  
Beside him, Tungsten shook his head. “Not like that, Sleet-san. Sybaris controls water and everything attributed to it. Water is the most important element for life.”   
  
Hephaestion seemed offended that Sleet would think any different and he cast the thief a sidelong, disapproving look. “It is my hope that you connect with your anima quickly,” he said vanishing out of existence, taking the press of power with him.   
  
Sleet glared at the empty spot where the deity had once stood, though it had no effect on the absent god. Hephaestion acted as though it was something simple to do. Just accept that an immortal creature lived in his head for the hell of it. Just accept that he was supposed to risk his life and save the world. Accept that he had all these powers and could do miraculous stuff.   
  
... Actually, the last didn't sound so bad.   
  
“We don't have much time,” Alaris said, her hands in constant motion as she adjusted her clothing and headed for the stairway. “Balaam's lackeys are already here and it is only a short time before he follows. Frost is certain to be here.”   
  
The priestess edged past Raven, descending quickly as the mercenary fell into line behind her. Tungsten rushed to follow, giving his robes a sharp yank so that he wouldn't trip on them. And Sleet, with more reluctance than anyone else, came along. He had nothing better to do after all, and didn't relish being trapped in the inn should it decide to get caught on fire like the rest of the buildings in Brulee.   
  
“Can you track him now?” Raven asked, and the inn gave an uncomfortable shudder.   
  
Immediately, the four of them paused to regain their balance. The sound of explosions came closer.  
  
“Yes,” Alaris replied, her voice an uneasy hum as she hit the main floor and kept moving. It was deserted, no patrons at the bar and the proprietor missing from his post. No doubt all had already fled in the wake of the approaching beasts.   
  
“I can, too,” Tungsten added, one hand moving to his belt of pouches where he withdrew his casting rod. “He is throwing magic left and right. It's quite tangible.”   
  
Even Sleet could agree. The sharp hum of Hephaestion's power had been that of ancient and wise magic. It had slapped against his body with all the subtlety of a forge hammer. But this power flooded over his senses, slamming against him like a storm-tossed tide. The feel of this anima was far more welcome to Sleet, familiar and comforting, like the enclosing warmth of a family member's arms.   
  
The inn's door swung open as Alaris gave it a sharp push, spilling the foursome out into the hazy afternoon. The smell of ash and smoke swept in to fill the void, smacking Sleet in the face and he coughed.   
  
The sound of screaming was louder now and Sleet shuddered, reaching down to palm one of his daggers. He heard a roar, like that of a terrible beast, and had to fight the urge to return to his room. Or worse, head for the hills. He really, really didn't want to fight.   
  
_I'm ashamed to be attached to such a coward._  
  
Sleet sneered. “Excuse me if not wanting to die makes me a fucking coward,” he snarled.   
  
He didn't realize he had spoken aloud until Tungsten and Alaris turned to look at him. Raven, at least, ignored him.   
  
Sleet waved them off and stalked another direction, trying to focus a glare inward. 'And now you're making me look like an idiot.'   
  
_My dear boy, you do a fine enough job of that without my help._ There was a pause in the midst of the anima's mockery, and his tone shifted into something else. _You will need my help for this battle. Call to me, Sleet. I will come._  
  
'I won't,' Sleet said. 'I won't need you because I won't be fighting. Simple as that.'   
  
_Then perhaps you had best duck._  
  
“What?”   
  
But he obeyed.   
  
Sleet dove to the ground, narrowly avoiding the screeching wail of a demon as it threw itself at him. He rolled to his feet, whirling to face the menace as his dagger leapt into his hands. The winged beast turned midair, fangs gleaming as it came at him for another attack.   
  
Just fucking great. Sleet was beginning to think that he was a magnet for trouble, without even trying to be. What rotten luck.   
  
'Some help you are,' he said, shifting to avoid the beast's clawed attack and raking his dagger down its side in retaliation. Blood bubbled up, yellow and thick, splashing against the ground.   
  
His anima didn't respond, and honestly, Sleet didn't know if he was glad or disappointed. He was saved from further contemplation when another creature made an appearance, skittering out of a nearby alley on four spider-like limbs.   
  
For just a moment, Sleet wished he hadn't separated from the others. Raven's sword would have been of use right now.   
  
Foresight. He lacked it.   
  


* * *


	12. The Advent of Courage - Chapter Seven

Wiping sweat from his eyes, Sleet sucked in a deep breath and ducked into an alleyway, plastering himself against the wall. His hands were cramped from gripping his daggers and his body ached where a few lucky strikes had gotten past his guard. And all Sleet was doing was defending. He wasn't actively seeking these beasts; they were attacking him.  
  
The taste of ash thick on his tongue, Sleet coughed, not allowing himself to linger for too long. He glanced at the opposite end of the alley where there was a smoky haze. It seemed preferable to where he had been. At least in the fog he would be better concealed.   
  
Raking a hand over his hair, coated with soot and bits of dried blood, Sleet crept through the alley to the other end.   
  
He wondered where the others were. He wondered why he hadn't abandoned Brulee completely yet. And Sleet wondered what he was really looking for.   
  
Drawn by the sensation of power prickling at his skin, he headed deeper into Brulee and closer to the action. Perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps it was something he couldn't explain. Maybe he thought that he would find Frost there. Either way, he was tracking the power, drawing closer and closer to it. Either way, he wasn't running, and Sleet supposed that meant something. He just didn't know what.   
  
Acrid smoke filled his lungs and Sleet coughed into his sleeve, trying to muffle the sound. At the end of the alley, he peered into the street. He couldn't see anything for the haze, but the sound of battle was apparent. Drawing a breath to gather what little courage he possessed, Sleet slipped into the main street, hugging the buildings for cover. Above him, the sounds of flapping wings gave testimony to the circling beasts. The ground rumbled beneath him.  
  
He followed the call of power, and crept towars the main portion of town. The smoke gradually became thinner as his boots crunched over rock. He tripped over a few corpses, and swallowed down his nausea at the sight of their charred and gnawed flesh. The urge to escape was cropping up stronger by the minute.   
  
Sleet didn't see the battle before he was swept up into it. One minute, he was creeping along, the next, a creature collided with him, bearing him down the ground. He felt claws prickle along the back of one thigh and one shoulder, the smell of rot and sulphur overwhelming. Crying out, he surged upward, trying to dislodge the unwanted beast. It rocked enough to the side that he lashed out with his dagger, cutting deeply into one of the limbs pinning him.   
  
Blood splashed down, wet and warm, and the creature cawed angrily, drawing back. He felt the snap of teeth near his ear and cursed, rolling out from under the claw pricking his leg. Sleet was on his feet within seconds, casting a glance over his shoulder as he skittered to put distance between himself and the... huge crow. Really, that was the only way he could think to describe the thing.   
  
The monstrous crow cocked its head at him, red eyes baleful.   
  
Sleet gulped, goosebumps prickling over his skin. This thing stood a head taller than him, blood already staining its beak and claws. It lifted the leg he had slashed, glanced at it disinterestedly, and then dived at Sleet, sharpened beak forward.   
  
Sleet wasn't interested in sticking around. He danced backward, out of range, and fled in the opposite direction. Away from the beast, but toward the thick of battle. He skidded around a corner, hearing huge feathers fluttering as they followed. His fingers felt slick around his daggers, suddenly such useless, paltry weapons in the face of that monster.   
  
Heat smacked him in the face, and he threw up his hand to protect his eyes. He passed a burning building, and ran straight into the main square of Brulee, only to skid to a halt in his shock. Here, the madness was that much more overwhelming. The press of magic was debilitating, bearing down on his shoulders and lungs like a tangible weight.   
  
Corpses littered the ground, human and creature alike. The area swarmed with monsters of all manner of ilk and he could see his companions amongst it all.   
  
Tungsten stood back to back with Asclepius. Raven carved a swath of destruction with that ridiculous blade of his. Alaris, off to the side, swung a huge staff as she tried to ward off her attackers and Hephaestion was not far behind.   
  
None of them were anywhere close to the middle, where none other than Frost was engaged in battle with a man Sleet didn't recognize.   
  
There was a loud caw behind him and Sleet dove to avoid, landing half on a corpse. He fought down nausea as his hand skittered in blood and he rolled into a crouch, searching for something, anything that would be a better weapon. He eyed the creature and flicked a dagger in his hand, throwing it at the crow.   
  
It screeched as his aim flowed true, sinking deep into one of the beady eyes. One massive wing flicked into the wall of a shop and Sleet took the distraction to his advantage. He scrambled out of the mire of blood and bodies and skirted around the main battle, breath coming in sharp pants of fear.   
  
His curiosity suddenly seemed a paltry thing and Sleet just wanted to get away.   
  
His eyes found Frost again, a third party having joined the battle. It was a woman, but even Sleet could tell that she wasn't human. She would appear the part, were it not for the power she radiated. Tawny hair flowed down her back and her amber eyes were visible, even across the distance.   
  
Ducking into the doorway of a shop, Sleet used the awning for cover, glancing over his shoulder. The crow was banging its head against the building, trying to dislodge the dagger from its eye. Blood streaked from the injury.   
  
A cry of pain pierced the sound of battle and Sleet's attention returned to Frost's fight, where the woman had been thrown backward by what appeared to be nothing more than shadow. Thick, black tentacles of nothing wrapped around her waist, and slammed her into a building, causing it to collapse beneath her. One of Frost's hands were around the unknown male's neck, blood streaming down the stranger's face. The other was directed toward the woman, and Sleet could barely see thin streams of shadow curled around the his fingers.   
  
Frost had done that?   
  
Do you not get it yet, Sleet? He is an animum. Not only that. He is Balaam's animum.   
  
Sleet shook his head. “I don't know what that means.”   
  
The voice in his head seemed to have lost all patience, sounding strained, as though it longed to join the battle. Balaam is the embodiment of darkness, that which lives in the shadows. And Frost is twisting those around him for his use. If you do not help them, we will lose Sybaris.   
  
“I can't,” Sleet replied, swallowing as he plastered himself more into the alcove, heart thundering in his chest.   
  
You won't.   
  
He closed his eyes, trying not to let the shame burble up. Hadn't he decided this? He wasn't a hero. He only cared about his own life.   
  
There was another sharp scream and Sleet's eyes snapped open. The woman – Sybaris – was in the air again, trying to fight against the shadows. Thin streams of water appeared from nowhere, called to her side, slapping against the black tendrils. From here, Sleet couldn't see Frost's eyes, and a part of him was glad that he couldn't.   
  
The feeling of power increased, so strong that it sent Sleet to his knees, gasping to reclaim his lost breath. He didn't know how the others were handling it. He chanced a glance toward them, but couldn't find Alaris within the madness. Flares of fire were his only clue to Tungsten's position, and Raven was overwhelmed beneath the waves of beasts that deemed him the biggest threat.  
  
Another building collapsed as Sybaris was slammed into it, and then a third. Water slapped against Frost and the man he held, but it froze before it could even touch the thief, forming little icy rivulets around Frost. It would have been beautiful, were it not for the carnage surrounding them. Frost's fingers flexed around the animus' throat and he gasped, grasping onto Frost's arm as his knees collapsed beneath him.   
  
You are a coward, the voice hissed, so loud that Sleet's head rang with the force of it. And that's the real reason. You just don't want to die.  
  
“Shut up,” Sleet gritted out, hand rising to his head where an ache had begun to build. “Shut up.”   
  
And miraculously, it did. Sleet could still feel a lingering stare of disapproval in the back of his mind, calling him all manner of uncomplimentary things.   
  
Something skittered on the roof above him and Sleet's blood ran cold. The building around him creaked from the addition of the weight and he heard the snuffling of a nose. He was covered in blood, not that it was distinguishable from the rest of the corpses. Could the creature smell him?   
  
His senses, normally so acute, suddenly rang with the urge to flee, and Sleet had never been one to ignore them. He scrambled to his feet, back bowed under the pressure of the power, and clung to the side of the building. There was the sound of another skitter, liked clawed feet over shingles, and it came from behind him. Fear prompted another surge of adrenaline and he pressed forward, glancing once over his shoulder.   
  
They were borne from nightmares, these demons and beasts that Balaam had summoned. Words couldn't describe the horror perched on the rooftop, all claws and mouths and eyes packed into a bulky frame. It looked hungry and Sleet had a feeling that humans were its favorite meal.   
  
Something barreled into Sleet from the side. He yelped as his back slammed into the ground and he skidded across the bloody dirt. He saw a flash of fangs and fur before a mouth enclosed his shoulder and bit deeply into flesh. He screamed, feeling it cut through muscle and bone, sending blood splurting everywhere.   
  
One hand useless, it was pure luck that he still gripped his dagger with the other. He didn't think, just plunged the blade over and over into the head locked around his shoulder. Talons scraped down one leg, but he lifted the other, jamming his knee into the underbelly of the monster. It was a cross between a wolf and a lion and something slimy, that dripped burning saliva onto his skin and clothes. He smelled his own blood, his own skin sizzling and his belly lurched.   
  
Blood splashed onto his face from the beast, but it's jaws were locked. Teeth bit deeper, and refused to let go no matter how much he stabbed it. The power swelled stronger, making his skin crawl.   
  
There was an insane cackle, rising louder and louder in the air, filled with a sense of victory. Sleet couldn't see anything but creature, his body heavy with pain.  
  
“Asclepius!” A male's voice rose in the night, filled with command. Not Tungsten's. Not Raven's. Or maybe it was, Sleet couldn't tell anymore.   
  
And then, the world exploded.   
  
The ground rumbled, and power swept out in such a fierce wave that it tore the beast from atop him, ripping the jaws free. The creature went flying backward and Sleet gasped, clutching onto the wound as he lay plastered to the ground. Something kept him pinned there, but he couldn't see what it was above the wind lashing through the air.   
  
Sleet's breath was stolen from his body and he gasped,an overwhelming sadness creeping through him. It made his eyes tear up, though he didn't know why. The sense of loss was gripping, as though he had lost someone dear to him. Sleet had the desire to throw his head back and howl his grief, to cry to the heavens.   
  
And then the feeling of pressure abruptly vanished, as did the power. Sleet choked on a sob, tears burning his eyes. He could move again, and Sleet rolled over on his good side, landing in a crouch among tumbled corpses. His eyes widened at the destruction, all of the buildings surrounding the main square of town collapsed beyond recognition. Most of the demons and beasts were gone, either obliterated or blown away, Sleet didn't know which.   
  
Raven was struggling to rise to his feet, his sword nowhere in sight. He was favoring one side, blood soaking his tunic. Alaris was on her feet, looking haggard and worn, but very much alive. Hephaestion was at her side. Tungsten was supporting Asclepius, the deity collapsed against him tiredly. The gem in her forehead had dimmed and she looked pale, drained of vigor. They were the closest to the center, Tungsten standing where the ground was clearest.   
  
He couldn't see Sybaris anywhere, but Frost had not moved. He still gripped the animus' throat and as Sleet watched, he broke the man's neck in a single twist. The body jerked before Frost dropped it as thought it were nothing more than garbage. He then turned, and for the first time, Sleet could see his eyes, and he couldn't see anything of Frost in them. They were pools of crimson, without hint of a pupil.   
  
Sleet struggled to his feet, wincing as pain rocketed throughout his whole body. One arm dangled useless at his side, blood dripping from his fingers. His head pounded and the grief had not abated, though he knew it couldn't be his own.   
  
“Tungsten!” Alaris' voice rose in the night.   
  
Sleet looked up.   
  
Frost was stalking toward Tungsten and Asclepius, thin streams of black shadow twined around his fingers. He was going to kill them. Because Tungsten was an animus and Asclepius was an anima, and Balaam wanted that power for himself. And Frost was nothing more than Balaam's puppet.   
  
Tungsten's fingers curled tighter around Asclepius, the goddess lolling bonelessly against him. Tungsten was scrambling for his casting rod, pointing it at the approaching thief with false bravado.   
  
“Stay back,” Tungsten ordered, voice raspy. Fire sputtered at the tip of the rod before dying away.   
  
I'm going to stand here and watch them die.   
  
Sleet swallowed thickly. Even to himself, he sounded disgusted.  
  
“You're just as guilty as he is. Doing nothing is the same as swinging the sword yourself.”  
  
Alaris was trying to reach them, but she was too far away. Raven was caught in a wrestling match with one of the surviving monsters because his sword was nowhere in sight.   
  
Sleet was the closest.  
  
“He insisted on goin' back ta look for ya. An' then, the buildin' collapsed, and it was burnin' and...”  
  
“I don't know why you're saying that. You're a kinder person, Sleet-san.”  
  
Sleet's good hand curled into a fist as he sucked in a breath, his body trembling. Someone had protected Sleet, even when he hadn't cared enough about their cause. Usoff had died looking for Sleet, even though he hadn't cared enough to go back and look for either of his friends.   
  
Sleet didn't want to die.   
  
But he was sure that Tungsten didn't either.  
  
Sleet moved before he had made a conscious decision, legs wobbly as he darted across the ground and passing corpses. It hurt, his shoulder screaming in pain, but he gritted his teeth. He tripped and stumbled, but kept moving. He wanted to see for himself. Sleet wanted to look into Frost's eyes, to see the madness with his own.   
  
“He insisted on goin' back ta look for ya...”   
  
“You are a coward. You just don't want to die.”   
  
“Frost!”   
  
The name was torn from his lips as Sleet stumbled and threw himself between Frost and Tungsten, gasping for breath and skidding to a stop. He heard Tungsten give a gasp of surprise behind him, but it was nothing compared to the look on Frost's face. Something warred there, and hate mixed with something softer.   
  
Frost blinked, drawing to a halt.   
  
Sleet clutched his injured shoulder, struggling to draw a breath. “What do you think you're doing?” he demanded, dizzy spots dancing in front of his eyes. He'd lost too much blood maybe.   
  
He was going to die anyway, it seemed. Might as well make it a brave death, even if his knees knocked together and he thought he was going to throw up at any second.   
  
Frost dropped his hand, the shadows disappearing from around his fingers. “I should be asking the same of you,” he said, his voice carrying an odd echo. His eyes eased back toward a more familiar brown. “Get out of the way.”   
  
“No.” Sleet dredged up a look of defiance from somewhere. “Why are you killing people? Why are you doing this?”   
  
Frost glanced at Tungsten. “I'm sure they've told you the story. You might as well believe it, Sleet.” His eyes shifted back to Sleet, slowly, as though he were having difficulty focusing. “And you're an animus, too.”  
  
Sleet took a step backward. “You're going to kill me, too?”   
  
Frost's fingers twitched, and he took a step forward, only to shake his head. “I... won't.” He rubbed the heel of his palm against one eye, peering at Sleet with the other.  
  
One eye was clear of madness. This was the Frost Sleet knew. But that didn't mean he was going to get any closer.   
  
Frost held out his free hand. “Join me,” he said. “Join us and you can have anything you want.”   
  
It might have sounded enticing, were it not for the blood that flecked Frost's hand. It was the same that had broken the man's neck. Sleet could still imagine the shadows that flickered around it, hungry and reaching. It made his stomach churn.   
  
He wouldn't say yes, he couldn't say no.   
  
Sleet didn't want to fight Frost. Hell, he didn't want to fight at all. He didn't want to turn down the chance to have his every wish come true. Sleet didn't know what he wanted. All he knew was that the Frost in front of him, wasn't entirely the Frost he remembered.   
  
Frost's hand dropped from his face, revealing the other eye which darkening again, turning blood-red. “You won't answer?” He sneered. “Then you have chosen your side. With the humans.”   
  
“You're one of us,” Sleet argued, taking another step back as a wave of something awful washed over him. “You are human. No matter what that parasite inside you says.”   
  
“I am not a parasite,” Frost growled. No, not Frost. Balaam.   
  
Sleet could tell the difference; his skin crawled.   
  
Frost licked his lips, taking a step forward, and closing the gap between them. He lifted his hand, reaching for Sleet's face. He grimaced, trying to turn away from the touch. It came anyway, Frost's fingers cupping one cheek and feeling cold as ice.  
  
“Do you know how rare, Sleet, your eyes are? So rare...” Frost murmured, fingers curling around Sleet's face in a near-caress.   
  
He knew Tungsten was behind him, watching everything, and shame colored Sleet's cheeks. He batted Frost's hand away, ducking to the side to put distance between himself and Balaam in Frost's body.   
  
The dizziness was worse now. He swayed on his feet.  
  
“Don't touch me,” Sleet hissed, feeling his breath skip in his lungs. His side was coated in sticky warmth, the wounds pulsing. He felt cold. Too cold.   
  
Frost retracted his hand, amusement curving his lips. “I can see why he liked you. It is such a shame that he'll have to watch you die.” Power flexed, swarming around Frost as his other hand twitched..   
  
Cold attacked Sleet's feet and he looked down, seeing streaks of ice swarming his boots and climbing up his legs. His eyes rounded and he jerked backward, away from the ice and almost landing on Tungsten.   
  
“Best to take you out before you complete the bond,” Frost said, that smirk still on his lips.   
  
He stilled, expression changing somehow. “No! That wasn't the agreement!”   
  
Frost took a step backward and the chill receded from Sleet's body, leaving him shaking. Dark brown eyes swept over Sleet before Frost retreated again.   
  
“Have it your way!” Frost snarled, cutting a hand through the air.   
  
Magic coiled around Frost and tendrils of shadow rose from the ground, winding around Frost's frame and cloaking him in darkness. It moved up his body, covering every inch that was exposed until it seemed he was nothing but shadow and only his face remained visible.   
  
Frost's gaze was unrelenting, capturing Sleet's and he couldn't look away.   
  
His stance wavered and Sleet dropped to one knee, bright lights flashing in front of his eyes. He still couldn't look away.   
  
“The next time we meet,” Frost said, his voice a sibilant hiss that was all Balaam and not one inch of the thief that Sleet had known, “we will be enemies, Erebus' other.”   
  
The darkness swallowed him whole. And then, as Sleet watched, he seemed to liquefy, collapsing toward the ground. The darkness splashed up like black water before evaporating into nothing.   
  
Frost was gone.   
  
Silence swept through Brulee, heavy and judging.   
  
Sleet sucked in a breath, but couldn't seem to keep it in. He gasped, more spots dancing in his vision. He felt himself falling, the ground coming up fast to meet him.   
  
He thought he heard someone say his name. Then he heard nothing at all.   
  
* * *  
  
Sleet, wake up.   
  
No. Waking up meant registering pain, registering corpses and blood, death and destruction. It meant recalling the look in Frost's eyes, hovering on the edge of madness.   
  
The voice in his head was persistent. It felt like fingers were patting him on the head.   
  
Hiding from the world doesn't make it go away. Wake up, Sleet. You've slept long enough.   
  
Light poked on the edges of his senses, piercing the darkness. Sleet groaned and turned away from it, floating happily in unconsciousness. He wouldn't mind sleeping for another few weeks. Fuck the world. He was fine where he was.   
  
The voice sighed, like a parent who'd had enough of their child misbehaving. He heard a quick inhalation and then -- “Sleet, wake up!”   
  
Sleet jerked out of sleep with a cry, arms flailing. His eyes flew open, his heart beating a million miles a minute.  
  
A pair of hands moved to his chest and pushed him back down.   
  
“Lay still,” a female voice said with a cluck of her tongue. “Or you'll pull the stitches.”   
  
Sleet blinked, focusing on the person hovering over him. Long brown hair, sharp blue eyes, recognition dawned – Alaris.   
  
She removed her hands from his chest and moved to the side, no longer crouching over him. The fingers of one hand delicately plucked at his right shoulder and he hissed under his breath.  
  
Alaris shook her head, amusement pulling at her lips. “Relax, Sleet. It's a nasty bite, but it won't kill you.”   
  
“Pity,” he said, his voice rasp. He cleared his throat to try and ease the choking feeling. “Where are we?”   
  
Brulee was nowhere in sight. In fact, they seemed to be within a forest, deep amongst tall and dark trees. Beyond the thick leaves, he could see spots of a grey sky. Still daytime then, but with a threatening storm. He heard horses nickering somewhere, but didn't see them, and a small fire crackled to his right. The steady rasp of stone over metal confirmed Raven's presence, even if he couldn't see the mercenary.   
  
Tungsten popped into Sleet's line of sight, creased with worry. “You're awake,” he said. “You've been sleeping for hours!”   
  
“Not quite so many,” Alaris corrected, brow furrowing as Sleet felt a tingling sensation in his shoulder. It was accompanied by a pleasant warmth. “It is near nightfall, so the hours are only a few.”   
  
Tungsten knelt beside Sleet, his robes ragged and mud-stained, a few healing scrapes on his face. “We're outside of Brulee,” he said.“It was no longer safe in town.”   
  
“That's an understatement,” Raven said from beyond Sleet's sight.   
  
Alaris sighed, clapping a hand over Sleet's mouth before he could say anything. “Raven, don't antagonize anyone right now. We've enough to deal with.”   
  
There was an answering snort but Raven kept his peace. The steady sound of him sharpening his sword filled the air once more.   
  
Alaris looked down at Sleet. “And you, Sleet, don't start anything either.”   
  
He nodded beneath her palm and she withdrew it, returning to healing his shoulder.   
  
“It will take at least two days for me to heal this. There was a lot of damage.”   
  
Sleet winced. “It bit me. I'm surprised I still have a shoulder.”   
  
“Frankly, so am I.”   
  
“Asclepius is sorry she couldn't have helped more,” Tungsten said, chewing on his lower lip. “But our bond is still new. Or so she says.”   
  
Sleet shrugged with one shoulder, relaxing into the pile of blankets beneath him. “She helped enough. Or someone did. That blast didn't blow me away like it did the monster.”   
  
Alaris' hands paused in their ministrations. “That blast,” she repeated, her voice edged with something else, “was Sybaris' death. I warned you about that, did I not?”  
  
Sleet's eyes widened. “You said that the damage at the death of a deity was catastrophic.”   
  
“It would have been, had Asclepius not contained most of the destruction,” Alaris said, picking up her movement but with a bit less care. “And it would behoove you to speak respectfully of her sacrifice.”   
  
Sleet inhaled shakily. “I didn't mean it like that. He winced. “I didn't know...”   
  
“You might have, had you bothered to help. But you made your intentions clear so I should probably be more angry with myself for expecting more.”   
  
“He helped me,” Tungsten said, shooting Sleet a thin smile. “That counts for something.”   
  
Sleet, however, knew the truth. It counted for nothing.   
  
Not while he had stood there and watched Frost break that man's neck. Not when he had watched and debated as Sybaris fought against shadows. Not when he'd looked at Alaris, and looked at Tungsten, and realized again why they had needed his help.   
  
Hephaestion was the deity of life; he guarded the sanctity of it. It was thanks to him that Alaris could heal, that she could soothe away aches and pains and patch Sleet back together with no scars or unintentional pain.   
  
Asclepius was the guardian of heaven, of protection. Sleet knew stories of her, enough to know that she could craft the strongest shields. That her defense was unrivaled amongst the other deities. She once had been called on by armies to protect their loved ones, those left behind.   
  
Neither of them had battle skills. They could defend, they could heal, pick up the pieces when the war was over and try and prevent injury. But they couldn't fight.   
  
What did any of them have that could combat Balaam, who controlled the very darkness, and whatever other abilities he had picked up along the way? Ice came to Sleet's mind, remembering the chilling creep of it up his legs.   
  
They needed Sleet because whoever his anima was, he held power. Something more useful in battle, that could be used to attack and protect. What was it that Balaam in Frost's body had called him? Erebus' other? Could that be the name of his anima?   
  
A hand touched his free shoulder and Sleet startled.   
  
“You helped me,” Tungsten insisted. “I knew you would. Does that mean you're going to cooperate with us now?”   
  
He suspected that Alaris and Raven also wanted to know his answer. They were paying him strict attention.   
  
Sleet had been so adamant about staying out of their problems and their war. A part of him still wanted to run the other direction, still wanted to abandon them to their heroics and save his own life. He was a thief, not some noble knight. Not that those exist anymore.   
  
Yet, the path to a normal life no longer existed, not with the world falling to ruins. Thievery wouldn't help him survive. Sleet himself had changed. He couldn't forget anything that happened, and there was nowhere deep enough to bury it.   
  
It was too late.   
  
The grief resonating inside of him refused to pass. He knew it wasn't his own.  
  
His anima mourned Sybaris' death. The nameless voice keened for her.   
  
Frost was fighting, too. Fighting his own anima and searching for something. Sleet would never know what if he turned away now.   
  
“I'll go with you,” Sleet said, resigned. “I'll help.”

****


	13. Hourglass - Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hourglass (Nine Parts) -- Sleet and the others continue to seek out more allies to their cause, hoping to gather the remaining animus before Balaam finds them. Time is their enemy, all too short for the battle that rages ever closer.

Three days later and Sleet's shoulder still hurt. He reached up and rubbed at it. The aching was deep in the flesh and muscle.  
  
Alaris had said it would be some time before it felt normal again, and his arm would be weak for a week or so, but it would heal. Sleet supposed that was all that mattered. Not that he cared for the new scar where skin had been unmarred. Teethmarks were unbecoming.  
  
Here in the countryside, it was cold. The further north they rode, the faster the temperature dropped. Above them, the sky rarely departed from a dim grey and the air carried a constant, damp chill. He could smell snow.  
  
The thought of it made his bones ache.  
  
Tungsten rode up on Sleet's blind side with a noisy clop of hooves. “Sleet?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“How's the arm?” Tungsten asked, matching Sleet's pace.  
  
It seemed he wasn't going to return to the head of the line, where he'd been riding with Asclepius. The cheerful goddess had been filling the long hours with magical instruction and stories about Elysium, the home of the gods.  
  
Sleet had just about gotten used to the sight of Asclepius walking alongside Tungsten in her other form, that of a cute rabbit-type creature. She claimed it to be much faster than her human form.  
  
He had also nearly come to terms with the fact that the deities chose when and where to pop up out of nowhere.  
  
“It hurts,” Sleet answered, biting back a yawn. His sleep had more than restless lately. It was almost nonexistent.  
  
He closed his eyes, and didn't like what he saw in the darkness.  
  
A nameless man dying, his throat crushed by Frost. An encompassing grief that even now lingered. Beasts beyond his worst imagining, dark eyes gleaming, teeth dripping with venom. Fire licking across homes in a blazing orange wave that sucked at the moisture of his eyes and plucked at his skin.  
  
_That would be guilt, Sleet._  
  
He sighed. 'Just... stop. I'm not in the mood to listen to your preaching today.'  
  
Sleet had an image of his anima smirking at him, youthful face pulled into smug self-importance. _Tungsten's talking to you._  
  
Rolling his eyes, Sleet paid Tungsten some attention.  
  
“... couldn't help but be curious. Of course, you don't have to answer if you don't want to.” With that, Tungsten looked at him.  
  
Sleet had no idea what the kid had asked.  
  
“What was the question?”  
  
Tungsten tilted his head to the side. “Are you sure you're well? Maybe you need to rest?”  
  
Without waiting for a response, Tungsten craned his neck, trying to catch Raven's attention and Alaris' as well.  
  
“I'm fine,” Sleet said quickly, not wanting to draw Raven their direction. He didn't feel up to verbally sparring with the bastard. “I just wasn't paying attention.” He lifted a hand, knocking it against the side of his head. “Erebus was being annoying.”  
  
Tungsten pursed his lips. “It would probably be easier if you just accepted him, Sleet. He wouldn't bother you half as much, I think.”  
  
Sleet snorted, sliding his fingers back in the loop of his reins. “Like Asclepius doesn't pop up whenever she wants.”  
  
“But I ask her to do that,” Tungsten said. “I like hearing her talk about Elysium and the gods. It's fascinating.”  
  
“Oh, do tell,” Sleet said, without any enthusiasm.  
  
Tungsten beamed brightly at what he took to be an invitation to launch into a history lesson. “Well, for instance, the gods are very familial, despite being immortal beings.” He lowered his voice. “Balaam is actually Sybaris' son.”  
  
Despite telling himself he wasn't going to listen to Tungsten's blather, Sleet sucked in a breath of surprise. “He... _what_?”  
  
“That's what I said. He's crazy, Sleet. He killed his own mother for power.”  
  
“And we're supposed to fight a creature like that?”  
  
_He was not always this way, Sleet. Once upon a time, he was kind and gentle._  
  
Erebus' voice trickled through his conscious and Sleet grimaced, unable to think fondly of the god who manipulated Frost and so callously destroyed his own mother.  
  
Sleet himself wasn't particularly close to his mother, but the thought of anything happening to her would still upset him. Mothers were sacred.  
  
“We have no choice,” Alaris said, inviting herself into the conversation as she fell into line on Sleet's left, boxing him in.  
  
“Balaam must be stopped,” she added, sweeping her hair over her shoulder so that it draped her back once more. “No matter what.”  
  
Sleet kept his sarcastic comments to himself. Alaris, after all, was the one who had healed him and as long as he was still in pain, he wouldn't piss her off. Otherwise she might decide it would be better if he healed naturally, and he couldn't thieve very well with one immobile arm. He was also weaponless again, and would have to restock in Nename.  
  
Alaris' words put a damper on the conversation between the two men to Sleet's relief. He just wanted to lay down and sleep somewhere. Preferably in a location that was warm and covered with thick, comfortable bedding.  
  
“I think that Sleet-san understands the gravity of the situation, Calleen-san,” Tungsten said as he smiled. It was a strained smile. “He was merely commenting on the difficulty of our opponent.”  
  
“Alaris!” Raven bellowed from ahead of them, gesturing to Alaris with a sharp jerk of his head.  
  
Alaris sighed and flicked her reins, her horse breaking into a trot to catch up to Raven.  
  
In Alaris' absence, Tungsten turned his attention back toward Sleet. “Balaam is mad, yes. But we are not alone. We have the deities on our side.”  
  
“Oh, good,” Sleet drawled, shivering as another cold gust swept over him. “Now I can rest at ease.”  
  
Once again, his wit passed right over Tungsten. “There are others. Asclepius has assured me.” He started rooting about in one of his many, disorganized pouches. “You know of Fafnir already. But there is also Iblion and Gilgamesh.”  
  
The names meant nothing to Sleet. “And they are?” he asked, curious despite himself.  
  
It was a damn sight better than muttering to himself and bemoaning his circumstances. He'd agreed to tag-along on this foolish quest after all, even if it was in the hopes of finding Frost and shaking the other thief until he gave Sleet satisfactory answers. And if anything, it would at least kill the monotony of forest and half-trod road, followed by more forest and grey skies.  
  
Tungsten beamed at Sleet's interest. “Iblion is the breath of the skies, the master of wind. And Gilgamesh is the lord of confusion, master of chaos and madness.”  
  
“Not a cheerful one, is he?”  
  
“He doesn't have your wry sense of humor, but he's been known to crack a joke or two.”  
  
Sleet looked over at Tungsten.  
  
Asclepius was slowly filtering into view, perching on the rump of Tungsten's horse and easily matching the uneven sway of the beast.  
  
She grinned at Sleet, though there was a tightness to her eyes. Her feet swung cheerily, the tinkle of bells a noisy cadence.  
  
“Why do I find that hard to believe?” Sleet said dryly.  
  
Asclepius shrugged and leaned against Tungsten's back. “You should let Erebus out. It's no fun to be trapped in a human's mind.”  
  
“If that's true, maybe he'll leave eventually.”  
  
“You don't mean that, Sleet-san,” Tungsten said. “It is an honor to be selected as an animus.”  
  
Sleet shrugged, running his hand through his hair. “Funny how I don't seem to recall being given a choice.”  
  
When it boiled down to it, that was what irked Sleet the most. He could live with the awesome powers he would be given. He could handle an inner voice sarcastically mocking him. He might even be able to stomach the fact that he should fight. But what he could not stand was that the choice had been taken from him.  
  
_If it makes you feel any better, I would have preferred a different animus myself. To say that you are difficult would be an understatement._  
  
Sleet snorted. 'The feeling's mutual.'  
  
“You're not the least bit excited?” Tungsten pressed, brow drawing tight.  
  
Sleet shrugged. “Yeah, okay, so maybe the magic involved is just a little bit wicked. But I could've done without the voice in my head.” He tapped a finger against his temple. “Privacy is privacy.”  
  
“We don't listen to everything,” Asclepius said drolly.. “Even we have better things to do than that.”  
  
“Small favors,” Sleet muttered.  
  
She kicked out her legs, bells jingling. “But that so-called wicked power can't be used unless you accept Erebus. Until then, your bond won't be complete.”  
  
Sleet smirked. “It's the one choice I get, your highness. I won't be making it anytime soon.”  
  
It sounded simple, in theory. Accept that he was some deity's pawn, his gate to the mortal world. Let the god live in his head. Bond with him. Give himself over to some greater destiny. Simple, but entrapping. And if there was one thing a thief did not like, it was cages.  
  
How Frost could have simply accepted it, Sleet didn't know. Perhaps there was an incentive in there he didn't have any knowledge of.  
  
Asclepius blew air out of her mouth, pouting. “You're no fun at all.”  
  
_If only she knew how much I agreed with her._  
  
Sleet twisted his jaw. 'Are you going to comment on anything and everything in my life?'  
  
Erebus smirked. _We are stuck with one another, Sleet. It is best to make the most of it. There is so much you do not understand._  
  
'Care to enlighten me?'  
  
_Care to accept your destiny?_  
  
He snorted. 'Not a chance.'  
  
Sleet's attention drew back to reality where Tungsten and Asclepius bantered back and forth. Alaris had dropped back to speak with them again. She looked perturbed, a tick developing over one eye.  
  
Above them, Karasu cawed and banked down for a landing, Raven lifting an arm for the large bird to settle on.  
  
“We'll be in Orlonis by evenfall,” Alaris informed them, her eyes cutting to Raven before settling back on Tungsten and Sleet, noticing Asclepius as well, nodding a greeting. “Hello, Asclepius.”  
  
Asclepius beamed. “You should invite Hephaestion out. He might actually like it, the boring bugger.”  
  
Alaris arched a brow. “He seems otherwise occupied, but I'll be sure to pass on the message. She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders.  
  
Tungsten frowned. “Orlonis? I thought we were heading to Nename?”  
  
“Orlonis is near Nename, but we're still a week out,” Sleet said before Alaris could. He knew this area well, having grown up on the far side of Shadowglade, west of Nename.  
  
“You know a lot about this area?” Alaris asked.  
  
Sleet shrugged. “Enough. Orlonis is a small town, even more so than Brulee. Not much worth stealing.” He grinned, bearing his teeth.  
  
Tungsten chuckled. “It should be a pleasant stay then.”  
  
“And brief,” Alaris said, shooting Sleet a warning look. “How's the shoulder?”  
  
“It hurts,” he said. It ached, truth be told, a dull throb that persisted no matter how much he tried to ease the pain.  
  
She beckoned him closer. “Let me take a look at it.”  
  
Sleet glanced around. “Now?”  
  
“Might as well,” Alaris said, gesturing toward him again. “Or you could deal with the pain. It's up to you. But I doubt your thieving skills will recover.”  
  
“Fine.” Sleet sulked, and pulled back on the reins, slowing his horse's gait.  
  
Alaris moved to his other side, matching his pace. Sleet obligingly pulled off his cloak, shivering in the cold.  
  
She pulled aside the collar, peering at his skin. Gentle fingers prodded at the edges of the wound.  
  
“It's not infected,” she said as a tingly-warmth washed over his shoulder. “It should heal completely.”  
  
“Except for the scar,” Sleet said.  
  
Alaris withdrew her touch, allowing him to snuggle back into the comfort of his thick cloak. “Except for the scar,” she agreed. Her eyes flickered to Tungsten and Asclepius – deep in conversation. “Have you considered your anima?”  
  
“You guys can badger me all you want, but it won't make me act any quicker,” he said, rolling his injured shoulder. It didn't hurt as much anymore, though his skin felt tight.  
  
“You won't be able to fight Balaam without him.”  
  
“So I've been told.”  
  
“That is a little risky, don't you think?”  
  
_At least someone around here has a lick of sense in their head. You should listen to Alaris, Sleet._  
  
'And that's the last thing I'm going to do. Even if it kills me,' Sleet said.  
  
Alaris' righteous attitude pissed him off. He could just imagine her advice. Killing himself for the sake of a bunch of strangers who'd sooner lock him up than thank him. Hell, no.  
  
“Alaris!”  
  
Raven bellowed from the front of the line, turning in his saddle to watch the three trailing along behind him.  
  
The ticking above Alaris' eyebrow returned and she gritted her teeth. “I swear to Hephaestion...” she muttered, snapping the reins to catch up to Raven.  
  
Sleet breathed easier in her absence.  
  
“Sleet?”  
  
He rolled his head to the side. Damn it, but Tungsten was still here. “Yeah?”  
  
Tungsten hesitated, words coming in short bursts. “Balaam... he's dangerous and his animus... you know him, don't you?”  
  
“A bit,” Sleet hedged, uninterested in explaining the complexities of his relationship with Frost to someone like Tungsten, who was probably a virgin for Aesir's sake! “He's a fellow thief. We were both in Tawnry when the demons attacked.”  
  
Tungsten frowned. “You didn't look like passing acquaintances,” he said, cutting his eyes at Sleet.  
  
“Ah, well...” Sleet trailed off, biting his lip in an attempt to search for the right words without landing on the truth.  
  
“Orlonis is over the next ridge,” Raven interrupted, having dropped back to deliver this kernel of information. “Try not to cause too much trouble, Sleet.”  
  
Sleet scowled, eyes narrowing. An acerbic comeback danced on his tongue.  
  
“That's good news,” Tungsten said, ever the peace-maker. “I think we're all in need of a rest.”  
  
Sleet couldn't agree more.  
  
Luckily, Orlonis did appear over the next horizon, saving Sleet from conversing further with his annoying companions.  
  
Orlonis was a small town, more like a village.  
  
A bundle of buildings clustered around the main road, with forest lining one side, and farmland stretching beyond the homes to the other. A few children with dirt smudged across their faces laughed as they played around in the dusty street, heedless of the winter weather stalking across the horizon. They stopped and stared as the companions rode up, probably because they were unused to visitors.  
  
This wasn't the straightest route to Nename. Raven and Alaris had both thought it better to avoid notice.  
  
“Charming,” Raven said, brushing a few fingers over Karasu's crest. The bird cawed and abruptly lit, rising into the sky.  
  
“It's a place to stay for the night,” Alaris said, and turned a charming smile onto one of the many little ones who stared at the four of them with interest. “Can you tell me where an inn is?”  
  
One of the least grubbier ones pointed down the road, where a crooked sign hung from one hinge. It was faded, but when Sleet peered closely, he thought he could see a bed painted on the cracked wood. He hoped the inside looked better than the outside.  
  
“Thank you,” Alaris said, and they rode on.  
  
Their curious gazes prickled at the back of Sleet's neck. He preferred subtlety. Riding boldly through the center of town was not subtle.  
  
_And the fact that there's nothing here worth pilfering doesn't bother you at all?_  
  
Sleet could hear the snicker in Erebus' voice. “Shut up,” he muttered, sliding down from his horse. It felt odd to be perched above the other citizens, some peeking out from their homes to gander at the visitors.  
  
“I'll look around,” Raven said, dropping down from Flurin and handing the reins over to Tungsten as the mage also dismounted.  
  
Tungsten looked at the leather strips in his hand. “But--”  
  
“Take good care of her.”  
  
Raven didn't wait for a confirmation, stalking down the dirt street as the residents of Orlonis scurried to get out of his way.  
  
“Be back before nightfall!” Alaris called after him.  
  
Raven flicked a hand over his shoulder before turning down a side alley.  
  
Tungsten stared at Flurin, who pawed the ground and gave a snuffle. “I didn't realize I had become his squire,” he said.  
  
“You'll get used to it,” she said, handing over her reins as well. “Looks like there's a stable to the side. Take mine, too?”  
  
Alaris didn't give him much of a choice either, entering the inn before Tungsten could protest, to acquire a few rooms for them. If there were even any to be had in the small, dilapidated building.  
  
It was a squat structure, a line of flower troughs with withering blooms gracing the front. They would have been in full bloom, if winter weren't already threatening.  
  
Sleet blinked as he looked up, a snowflake falling into his eye. He was damned glad they weren't going to be roughing it. Even if the inn seemed questionable.  
  
Sleet took pity on Tungsten and grabbed the reins to Alaris' horse. He headed for the stables, his own steed snuffling.  
  
Tungsten obediently trailed after him, muttering about Raven's lack of polite behavior. Sleet wondered how he hadn't noticed before. Raven radiated disregard.  
  
The stables smelled of hay and horses, with an undertone of dog piss. How inviting.  
  
Sleet secured the horses quickly in effort to leave sooner and grabbed his own pack. There was a steady buzz at the back of his skull, and he felt more tired than he should.  
  
“Go ahead without me,” Tungsten said as he started sifting through his packs with the scramble of someone who just realized they were missing an item of great importance. “I'm fine.”  
  
Sleet waved a hand and left the stables, heading back toward the front door. He noticed a few of the locals watching him intently.  
  
Why the hell were they so skittish? He turned his back on them, pushing open the door to the inn, which squealed on rusty hinges.  
  
The nameless inn did not have a main room or much of a commons area. There was only a desk decorated by two vases of wilted flowers. Alaris waited nearby, rubbing at her eyes as she fought back a yawn.  
  
“They've only got two rooms,” she said and held out a ring of keys dangling from one finger. “Share with Tungsten.”  
  
Well, it could've been worse. It could've been Raven. Tungsten was at least polite and tolerable.  
  
“Oh, joy,” Sleet said, accepting the keys. They were room number two. “If the bed's comfortable, I could care less.”  
  
“And no stealing,” Alaris added as he turned down the only visible hallway.  
  
He ignored her.  
  
Sleet hadn't seen anything worth investigating, much less pilfering. He was too tired anyway. A thief relied on his reflexes. It was never good to sneak around when your instincts were too exhausted to work properly. Otherwise a thief might find himself in the stockade.  
  
The room was quaint and smelled of dust and mildew. Thick curtains covered the window and the bed – just one – looked comfortable enough. At least there weren't any cobwebs or evidence of vermin. There was a small fireplace, but Sleet was too exhausted to build a fire.  
  
_So this is your grand plan_ , Erebus said. _Tag along with the serious ones until you get your answers?_  
  
“That was my intention, yes,” Sleet said, dropping his bag to the ground and taking off his thin boots. Supple leather, perfect for sneaking. Too bad the closer they drew to Nename, the less practical they would become.  
  
_And how do you expect to survive far enough to find these answers without my help?_  
  
The bastard had a point. Sleet vividly remembered the power that Frost and Balaam had wielded. Ice and shadows. Who knew what else the crazy deity had absorbed?  
  
Erebus exhaled heavily. _The power to kill in an instant, for one. With a specialty in poisons. And now water, as if he needed anything else._  
  
Sleet winced, flopping down on one side of the bed, preferably the edge. He didn't much like being trapped in. Tungsten would have to crawl over the end to get the other side, unless he preferred to bunk on the floor.  
  
“Great. Death. Does that mean he can raise them if he wants?”  
  
_Like a zombie, you mean?_  
  
He closed his eyes, folding his arms behind his head as he burrowed under the blankets, breathing slowly and carefully. “Yeah, like a zombie. I really don't want to fight the undead, not that I have before. They are supposed to just be stories.”  
  
_Just like the existence of the gods, I suppose._  
  
“Yeah, just like.” Sleet snorted, closing his eyes.  
  
It was quiet enough that he could feel himself drifting off to sleep.  
  
Until Tungsten stumbled into the room. Sleet had helpfully left it open for him, and one eye popped open as the mage tripped on one foot and dropped an armful of junk onto the floor. Scrolls rolled every which way, along with a few brushes and a quill of ink, helpfully losing its top and sending a spatter of black ink across the scuffed wood.  
  
Sleet shouldn't have been so surprised.  
  
“Sorry,” Tungsten said, hooking one ankle behind the door and pushing it closed. “I had hoped to get some studying done.”  
  
Sleet threw an arm over his eyes. “Have at it. I've slept in worst conditions.”  
  
Tungsten bustled around the room, the silence peppered by surprised cries announcing his clumsiness.  
  
Closing his eyes, Sleet did his best to ignore the mage. His exhaustion did all the work for him.  
  


  
* * *


	14. Hourglass - Chapter Two

Sleet woke to the feeling of his lungs being gripped in a breath-stealing vise. Sleet struggled to suck in a breath as he flailed, only to thrash himself right off the bed.  
  
He hit the floor with a bone-jarring thud, his heart pounding audibly in his chest. He didn't dare move, laying there with his cheek pressed to the cold floor in an attempt to regain his senses.  
  
What the hell kind of dream...?  
  
Sleet groaned, pulling himself the rest of the way off the bed and stretching out across the floor. His heart was a mad beast inside of him, his breathing rapid. He couldn't focus, trapped in that fuzzy zone between sleep and dreaming.  
  
A sound rocketed through the room. It was a loud buzz and snortle that cut through the night air, rising and falling in an uneven rhythm.  
  
It took Sleet far too long to realize that the horrendous noise wasn't some monster about to tear into the room, but the sound of Tungsten snoring. By Gilgamesh, Sleet had never realized how horrible it was. And he'd thought Raven's under-breath mutterings in his sleep were bad.  
  
Shaking his head, Sleet pulled himself up off the floor. Something still felt off. His instincts were buzzing at him.  
  
Sleet moved to the window, pulling back the curtains and peering into the night. The last time his instincts had been this raw, towns were under attack by demons.  
  
Nothing greeted his eyes but the stillness of a small town past dark. No rising flames. No screams of terror. No fleeing citizens. Nothing to explain the unsettled feeling in his stomach.  
  
 _Do not dismiss it, Sleet. It is a warning._  
  
He cocked his head to the side, watching the moon vanish behind a drifting gray cloud. ' _Warning of what?'  
  
The demons that are heading this way._  
  
Sleet choked on his next breath, and was glad he didn't have to ask his next question aloud. _'Frost and Balaam? Are they after us?'  
  
As near as I can tell, it's not them. More like his minions, cast out to create mindless mayhem rather than coordinated destruction.  
  
'Because one is so much better than the other,'_ Sleet said. ' _Let me guess, Orlonis is in their sights.'  
  
It is the only place with humans in this vicinity. And the beasts are drawn to the beat of life. They hunger for blood and fear. _  
  
Sleet cursed under his breath, fingers clenching on the curtains. ' _And I'm sure that the residents won't be able to do anything more than that.'  
  
They do not have any defenses or militia if that's what you're asking._  
  
That, at least, explained the crawling in his senses. Battle was afoot.  
  
No doubt Alaris was already aware of the impending attack as well. She would be rousing them soon. And Sleet would have to make another choice.  
  
He turned away from the window, innards churning.  
  
He'd told them he'd help, but that didn't mean he was excited about throwing himself into the heart of danger. Sleet was a thief, not a warrior. He was supposed to slink through darkness and shadows, pilfering when his prey's back was turned, and ease into the night. He didn't know how to attack the enemy head on or defend himself.  
  
 _If you'd accept me, you'd have my strength._  
  
It was tempting. Sleet knew that Erebus must have realized that. The thought of having power at his fingertips both tempted and intoxicated him. Sleet thought of the things he could do with that power. And then he was reminded of the price he would have to pay.  
  
Sleet sought his boots. He only had the one dagger left. Great. Not only was he unskilled but he was also only half-armed.  
  
Knocking at the door made him jump out of his skin. Tungsten snorted and stirred, flopping over on his back.  
  
“Who... what?” he stuttered, the markings smeared and incoherent on his forehead.  
  
“You should get up,” Sleet said, his skin crawling with foreboding. “Something's coming.”  
  
“A good something or a bad something?” Tungsten pulled himself from the bed, tangling his feet in what was left of the bedcovers.  
  
“What do you think?” Sleet retorted and left Tungsten to his stumbling around the room.  
  
Another fist banged against the door, with more force than Alaris would have used.  
  
“What?” Sleet growled as he ripped open the door, unsurprised to find Raven glaring down at him, fully dressed in battle garb and ready for action.  
Raven stared at him. “Time to see if your promise holds true,” he said, thrusting something wrapped in leather in Sleet's direction.  
  
He took it without thinking as Raven spun on a heel and stalked down the hallway. Aesir forbid he should attempt to be polite.  
  
Sleet made a noise of disgust and looked down at the wrapped bundle in his arms. He peeled back the layers of leather, metal gleaming up at him from his palm. Another set of daggers, enough to replace the one he'd lost and keep a few in storage until he needed them.  
  
Sleet's brows lifted. A gift? Or something Alaris had commanded?  
  
“What's going on, Sleet-san?” Tungsten asked with a following clatter as he tried to pull on his boots while tripping on his robes at the same time.  
  
“You can't feel it?” Sleet asked, tucking one of the daggers into his boot and another up the sleeve of his tunic.  
  
“I'd been blocking outer magic.” Tungsten frowned, closing his eyes to concentrate, only to shudder seconds later. “Balaam is cruel,” he murmured, and swiped a hand over his forehead, smearing the dark ink even further. “What would their deaths serve?”  
  
“I don't think he really has a purpose for this in mind,” Sleet said.  
  
The crazed deity just wanted to watch the world burn, and damn anyone or anything that got in his way.  
  
 _They are nearly here._  
  
Sleet dragged a frustrated hand through his hair. “Thanks for the update,” he said, depositing one last dagger on his person, sliding it between his trousers and his belt, snug against the small of his back.  
  
He left Tungsten behind, sure that the mage would catch up on his own. Tungsten didn't need to be watched or anything. He could probably take care of himself better than Sleet could. And boy, wasn't that a sobering, embarrassing thought.  
  
Alaris was already the hall, her eyes unfocused as though she was concentrating on something outside of immediate sight and sound.  
  
Sleet cleared his throat to get her attention.  
  
Alaris blinked, her gaze shifting to Sleet with eerie precision. “Mr. Underwood. You are awake, I see.” A smile curved her lips, but it lacked humor.  
  
“As if I could sleep through that,” he drawled, hand waving in the general direction of the demons' approach. “How many?”  
  
Alaris tapped a well-groomed finger against her chin, though the manicure was starting to fray on several fingers. “A dozen or so. They're approaching the limits now. I sent Raven ahead.”  
  
Good. Maybe the asshole could take out half of them before Sleet managed to get there.  
  
Sleet turned away from Alaris, anxiety crawling in his throat.  
  
It was fake bravado but none of them needed to know that. He wasn't too thrilled about throwing himself into danger for the sake of a bunch of strangers. He'd have to play this cautiously. No diving between the residents and certain doom. There were heroes for that sort of thing. Sleet just wanted to survive.  
  
It was quiet when he stepped outside of the inn, his breathing coming out in white bursts. He regretted leaving his cloak behind, but there was no point in going back for it. No doubt adrenaline would hit him soon enough. He'd have all the warmth he needed then.  
  
His skin crawled and something pinged to his left. Sleet turned, seeing dark shapes flittering above and through the forest in the direction he and the others had come. A dozen or so? Yeah, right. This looked to be twice that. He swallowed, fingers gripping the hilt of a dagger with white knuckles.  
  
Sleet forced his feet to move though he kept to the shadows of the buildings, his view eased by the full moon.  
  
Something prickled across his scalp, the press of magic working, and Sleet glanced upward, in time to see a tell-tale ripple scatter across the black sky. Power flexed and oscillated before firming, a strange, rainbow sheen awkward against the stars.  
  
 _It is a shield_ , Erebus explained, as if Sleet couldn't figure it out for himself. _Tungsten and Asclepius will protect the civilians. But their strength is not without end._  
  
Meaning it was up to Sleet and Raven to take out the demons before the barrier went down. Great.  
  
Sleet slunk through the shadows, creeping closer to the gathering of demons. He could hear them now, a cacophony of hisses and growls and shrieks that made his skin crawl. He had the urge to go vomit somewhere, as much as his stomach twisted into knots.  
  
In the sky, many dark shapes whirled down for a landing as a low rumble echoed around him. His gaze shifted to the street, where a creature stalked, its body borne from the Underworld itself. Claws and tails barbed at the end sprouted from its hairless form and Sleet swore that half a dozen gleaming yellow eyes were the only spark of light in its body. It must have gotten within the limits before the shield went into place.  
  
A door opened from one of the houses nearby, a curious resident drawn by the noises.  
  
Sleet didn't think.  
  
He gripped his dagger with nervous fingers and stepped out into the road, his boots crunching audibly over gravel and drawing the beast's attention.  
  
The woman shrieked and wisely disappeared back into her house, slamming the door shut behind her. The beast didn't notice, its eyes locked on Sleet. There was a grating sound in its throat, like a demonic chuckle and Sleet really wanted to run. It crouched.  
  
Something cawed above the barrier over Sleet's head, and he startled at the noise. The creature took that second of distraction, and pounced.  
  
Heart leaping into his throat, Sleet threw himself to the side. He heard claws skitter across the gravel and Sleet didn't look, he ran. Toward the forest and the edge of the barrier.  
  
How were he and his puny dagger supposed to stop that thing?  
  
The beast crashed against the side of a building and righted itself, coming directly after Sleet. His stomach clenched at the rank odor emanating from its hairless body, barbed wire whipping out.  
  
 _Sleet, duck! Now!_  
  
For once, he didn't argue with the voice in his head.  
  
Sleet dove for the ground and rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the sharp point of one of the beast's tails. He gasped and sprang into a crouch, coming face to face with something that would only add to his nightmares. Yellow, slitted eyes and the rank odor of death washed over his senses.  
  
Sleet shouted and lashed out with his dagger. He cut a streak across the beast's face and rolled forward, up under the creature's forearms. Blood splattered onto the ground and Sleet twisted, landing hard on his healing shoulder. Pain rippled through him.  
  
He rolled onto his feet, lashing out, his dagger digging deep into the black, mottled underbelly, twisting to avoid another pointed tail. Blood splashed down, raining on his clothing, smelling of sulphur.  
  
Sleet gagged and clambered out from beneath the beast as it let loose an ear-splitting shriek. Its tail lashed through the night and Sleet whirled to avoid, catching the edge of it on his legs. It ripped through fabric, leaving a shallow gash behind.  
  
Blood lay wet and sticky on his fingers as Sleet chanced a glance over his shoulder, the demon moaning as its innards peeked through the split in its belly. Feet clawed at the ground, body shuddering.  
  
Sleet swallowed down rising bile, fingers trembling and blood-wet around the handle of his dagger.  
  
Something above him threw itself against the barrier, causing it to fluctuate visibly, but stand firm. The attacking thing was some sort of beaked monster with gleaming red eyes. It glared down at Sleet, glossy wings beating frantically.  
  
Time to go.  
  
Sleet took off, running around the dying thing and heading for the outskirts of Orlonis.  
  
If any of the citizens heard the noise, they wisely stayed indoors. The shield would protect them but if it came down at any point, they would be better off in their homes. His shoulder twinged and Sleet winced.  
  
The edge of the barrier lingered in front of him, the edge in line with the last building. Sleet stepped through it, feeling a tingle of magic cover him from head to toe. He wondered why it let him pass, but then something slammed into him, knocking him for a loop and down to the ground.  
  
Hands and claws and hot breath on the back of his neck. Sleet shouted, jabbing an elbow backward into something bony and scrambled against the ground. Teeth snapped near his ear. One of his hands was trapped beneath his body. He shoved his head back, his skull impacting against a mouth, making his ears ring.  
  
His attacker howled and clawed fingers clasped around Sleet's arm. He twisted and kicked high and out. His boot collided with what he thought to be a shoulder, knocking the creature off him. It flew to the side, though didn't loose its hold on his arm, dragging him with it.  
  
Sleet snarled, grabbed his dagger, and flipped over, plunging the knife into flesh and bone, hearing the sick crunch of the latter. More sulphurous blood splattered warm and sticky over his fingers.  
  
Sleet hacked at the arm until it let go, and heard his own frantic breathing over the pounding of his heart. He didn't want to look at whatever it was that had attacked him. He didn't want to know what manner of beast had breathed on the back of his neck.  
  
Somewhere nearby he heard the sound of metal clashing. Raven. He doubted the mercenary needed his help.  
  
Bushes rustled and Sleet spun toward the nose, dagger at the ready. Somewhere he'd lost one of them. He didn't remember leaving it behind.  
  
His free hand crept toward his boot, reaching for another dagger. He watched the dark forest as eyes popped out of the shadows one by one. Red and yellow and orange, the sound of the growls rising with cacophonous crescendo.  
  
Sleet swallowed, his mind a scattered collection of fear and survive and pain as he felt himself bleeding. That last demon had sliced him good; he could feel the wet warmth trickling down his side.  
  
The urge to run came and passed too quickly for Sleet to act on it. Something stepped out of the bushes, covered in hair with horns sprouting from its forehead. Said horns were wicked and spiraled, like a conch shell. It was smaller than most of the demons, but didn't seem any less dangerous. Not when three others like it stepped out from behind it, intent to pounce.  
  
“What kind of powers did you say I could have?'” Sleet asked, clutching his dagger.  
  
Erebus sounded smug. _Accept me and you'll find out._  
  
“Bastard. If I die here, you're the one stuck without a host.”  
  
 _No more stubborn than you,_ Erebus retorted. _You won't die._  
  
Glancing at the hungry creatures, Sleet wasn't convinced. “Great. I feel so much more relieved now.”  
  
They pounced all at once, giving him no time to plan his attack.  
  
They launched at him from the ground, easily the size of a large dog and just as formidable. Sleet brought up one arm to defend himself, slashing out wildly. He caught one thing against the snout, slashing through fangs and gums, saliva splattering out. Sleet whirled to avoid another.  
  
A third and a fourth collided, dragging him down, and he heard the distant yelp of the fifth. The sound of clanking metal, like that of chains snapping one against another, rattled through the night.  
  
Sleet yelled as fangs clamped down on his bad shoulder, reopening his wounds. He bucked and snarled, lashing out like a crazy man. He felt his dagger bite into flesh, tearing through gristle and bone. Felt the heat of blood splash over his fingers.  
  
The beasts growled and snapped, dug in with their claws and Sleet jabbed out with his daggers, wanting to do damage. Wanting to kill. He was a thief. He had a survivor's instinct. No mangy creatures would take him down. Claws raked over his face, welling up fresh blood, and narrowly missing his eye.  
  
“Fucking... grah!” Sleet grunted and thrust himself forward, lashing out with a foot.  
  
He heard a yelp as his boot caught one of the demons in the face, snapping it backward and cracking its spine. A head lolled on a broken neck as the monster flew away from Sleet.  
  
Sleet lashed out with his dagger and slammed it into one of the dog-beast's eyes, feeling the bright orange orb collapse and turn to jelly. His stomach rolled again and he fought back the vomit, turning instead to kick again, catching his next opponent in its thin ribs. They snapped beneath the force of his blow.  
  
Blood flowed from the cut on his forehead, obscuring his vision in one eye. Sleet rubbed an arm across it, smearing blood over his face, contemplating the safety of the shield Asclepius had put up.  
  
A shield that something massive and angry threw itself at without pause, making it shudder and crackle. The demon was huge, taller than Sleet himself, and vestigial wings sprouted from its furry back. It snarled and snapped, trying to force its way through the shield.  
  
Sleet's mouth went dry. He had to take it down.  
  
The creature seemed to sense Sleet's attention. It snarled as it whirled, an almost human face staring back at Sleet. Deep-set emerald eyes glared from beneath an overbearing forehead, and claws dangled at its side.  
  
Sleet hoped that his daggers were enough. He had to reach for another, drawing it from a thigh sheath. He was losing them quicker than he could have anticipated.  
  
Erebus could be of some help here. But he hadn't heard from his anima recently.  
  
Not that it mattered, because the demon attacked, lashing out at Sleet with a claw that had a reach surpassing half the length of his body. Sleet ducked under the swing but the demon spun mid-attack and lashed again.  
  
The blow caught him square in the chest and Sleet flew backward. It felt as if he'd been pummeled by a hammer, and he hacked, struggling to find air as he hit the ground. Sleet tried to rise, his vision doing funny things. He heard the monster approach with the wet, smacking sounds of a tongue gliding noisily over lips.  
  
Sleet coughed, glaring up at it. No fucking way. He couldn't do anything against this guy. Strength, speed, he had nothing. Some help Erebus was.  
  
He forced one hand on the ground and tried to rise against the pain cascading through his body. His senses felt dulled. Maybe all his injures had gotten to him.  
  
The creature laughed, or at least that's what Sleet thought the strange noise it made was.  
  
Sleet growled, and rocketed his body forward. He wouldn't die here.  
  
He ducked between the monster's legs and whirled in the same moment, ignoring the strain it placed on his body. In a flash, his blade flicked out, hamstringing the beast. Blood splashed, the creature roared, and it toppled forward, no longer capable of standing.  
  
He barely avoided the beast as it came tumbling down. One clawed hand snapped out, grabbing Sleet's retreating ankle and dragging him back.  
  
Sleet hit the ground hard, landing on his bad shoulder. Forest and dark sky and iridescent shield flickered through his vision, his mind spinning.  
  
Sleet thought that he should probably attack. His fingers closed around air. Damn. He'd dropped his daggers at some point. _This_ was the reason he was a thief and not a warrior. He wasn't cut out for battle.  
  
Claws pricked at his skin and he was yanked backward across the ground. Scrabbling for purchase resulted in vegetation and dirt being jammed under his fingernails.  
  
The creature said something, or at least Sleet thought it was an attempt at words. It laughed again, that grating chuckle.  
  
He was pulled closer, enough that he could lift a leg and smash his heel repeatedly against the monster's face. Teeth cracked and a nose crumpled beneath the onslaught and the beast grinned with a lurid, bloody mouth. The damn thing just wouldn't die.  
  
Sleet growled. “Damn it, let me go!” His kicked at the demon's face again.  
  
Rocks crackled near his head and with a dawning sense of horror, Sleet stared up at another creature as it hovered over him. Beaked mouth and feathered wings and beady little eyes. It screeched at him, beak opening wide.  
  
Sleet's eyes scrunched closed as he ground his heel on the face of the beast that had a hold on him. He was going to die.  
  
Something warm splashed on his face, followed by the sound of a sickening crunch.  
  
The monster above him keened, the shriek making his head ring. He cracked open one eye and found the bird-monster spitted on the end of a massive sword, blood dripping from the blade down onto Sleet. He made a disgusted noise and tried to move away, hindered by the weight attached to his leg.  
  
The sword yanked out of the bird-creature's body, yanking the corpse off to the side and away from Sleet, which revealed Raven looming over him. The mercenary lowered his sword, blood dripping from the blade.  
  
Raven watched, without offering to help, as Sleet kicked himself out of the wolf thing's hold. He didn't know if it was his kicking or Raven's sword that had killed it. He supposed it didn't matter.  
  
“Are you going to be this useless the whole way though?” Raven demanded, glancing at the body of the wolf beast.  
  
Raven was barely injured. A streak of blood painted his cheek beneath his eyepatch, and some of his clothes were ripped, but otherwise he'd emerged unscathed. Unlike Sleet.  
  
Sleet pulled himself to his feet, swaying on wobbling knees. Great. Blood loss. “What the hell is your problem?” he demanded before the shield suddenly shattered above them. “I'm fighting, aren't I? That's what you guys wanted when you dragged me into this mess!”  
  
Raven pulled out a rag and dragged it down the length of his sword. “Should I respect you since you finally grew some balls?” he said, sheathing the blade. “Is that what you're saying?”  
  
“Grew some...?” Sleet's mouth twisted with annoyance and anger. “You bastard. Not all of us make a living by killing things.”  
  
“It certainly takes a man to live his life stealing from others.”  
  
“What the fuck is the matter with you?” Sleet demanded. “I thought we were allies here!”  
  
Raven whirled toward him, looming over Sleet by a good head. “As long as you claim that bastard's innocence, I'll despise you,” he snarled, and the look in his eyes was haunted, filled with self-loathing and grief.  
  
Oh. Right.  
  
Raven's sister was dead. Killed by Balaam because she was an animus and Frost was to blame by proxy. Were those scars on Raven's face related to his sister's death? Had he been there when she died? Had he seen Frost deal the last blow?  
  
“You don't know Frost,” Sleet said. “He's not like that.”  
  
He couldn't believe Frost was the sole mastermind behind everything.  
  
Yeah, Frost was a thief, and he had his particulars. He could be a right bastard when he wanted. But he had never been unnecessarily cruel. He'd never killed in front of Sleet's eyes. He desired rare objects and difficult to obtain treasures. World domination had never crossed his mind.  
  
Raven reached out, snatching Sleet's tunic and hauling him forward before Sleet's pain-slowed reflexes could react. “I've got a news flash for you, idiot,” Raven snarled. “Everything he's doing is of his own choice. A god has to be allowed into the bond. He can't force your boyfriend to do anything.”  
  
Raven dropped him once that little gem was delivered, and Sleet stumbled, struggling to keep his feet beneath him. Raven said nothing else, whirling on a heel and stalking away into the night, leaving Sleet surrounded by ill-smelling corpses.  
  
His head spun and he groaned. His belly did an uncomfortable flip. His shoulder felt hot and tight. He was going to be scarred from this. If he survived it.  
  
“Sleet-san!”  
  
That was Tungsten's voice.  
  
Sleet struggled to turn, peering into the dark. “Tungsten?”  
  
Tungsten stumbled into view from the direction of the town, his face streaked with exhaustion. “You look awful!” he exclaimed, hurrying over. “I told Alaris you weren't ready.”  
  
Sleet snorted but said nothing.  
  
Alaris was like her mercenary pet. She didn't like or trust Sleet any more than Raven did. He was on the bottom of the ladder in their little party.  
  
Sleet couldn't care less. He wasn't here to make friends. He was here to find out about Frost. The truth, and not their version of it.  
  
 _My, aren't you friendly?_ Erebus' mocking drawl slithered out of nowhere, combating with the pounding of Sleet's skull.  
  
“Oh, so now you decide to appear,” Sleet said aloud. Tungsten would understand. He had a parasite in his brain, too.  
  
Erebus had the nerve to sound offended. _I'm hardly a parasite._  
  
'You're uninvited,' Sleet said. 'And you happily invade my thoughts. What else should I call you?'  
  
 _My name would be a start. I believe I've given it to you._  
  
A hand touched his shoulder and Sleet wobbled, leaning on Tungsten.  
  
“We should get you to Alaris,” Tungsten said. He slid one arm under Sleet's, helping to support him.  
  
“Mmnn.” Sleet allowed Tungsten to aid him. He wasn't going to admit aloud that he needed the support. The gash on his leg hurt, and his shoulder wasn't feeling too comfortable either.  
  
Residents peeked out of their homes curiously, taking stock of the few bodies that littered the streets and Sleet supported by Tungsten. No doubt they would want answers. Sleet wasn't inclined to give them. He'd leave that up to Alaris, if she planned on doing so. Sleet just wanted to return to his bed, nightmares and all. Some days it didn't pay to wake up.  
  
Alaris was waiting for them when they returned, and set to fixing Sleet up. She seemed more pleased with him than she had before. Raven was nowhere in sight, even better. And when Alaris was done, Sleet was allowed to drop into bed without having to answer any annoying questions. Even the ones from Erebus.  
  
Small favors he supposed.

  
* * *

  
  



	15. Hourglass - Chapter Three

It was another week before they arrived in Nename, and even then, Sleet was amazed by the sights. It was bigger than Tawnry, a lot bigger, though smaller still than Gwartney. No large temple loomed over the rest of the city, but it sprawled over a confined space. The streets were tiny and interconnected, filled to the brim with people. It made Sleet's fingers twitch with the desire to thieve.

He planned to sift his way through as many pockets as possible, and ignore Alaris' damning looks. They knew he was a thief. It was what he did. He didn't need her holier-than-thou attitude. If he survived this damn war, he'd need something to start over with. Heroes didn't get paid for their self-sacrifice.

The weather broke as they caught Nename in their sights, and the snow fell without ending. Sleet found himself dressed head to toe, his fingers protected by a pair of supple leather gloves. His horse didn't seem to like the chill either. And as it caught sight of the town, it put an extra clip into its step, no doubt eager for a warm stable. All the better, Sleet could skulk about on two feet much easier without a horse.

Sleet shivered, drawing his cloak tighter around him as they rode into the town. The crowded streets slowed their pace. Most of the populace were wearing fur-lined coats that looked comfortable. He might have to acquire one later. They looked flexible enough not to hamper him.

The people here seemed rich. Extravagant. They draped themselves in nice clothing and walked around with an air of self-importance. The buildings were in great repair, and the atmosphere was festive. Now that he thought about it, it did seem almost time for the Winter Solstice. Celebrations would be starting all around Corynth over the next few weeks.

Sleet longed to dive into the crowd, to lose himself in the people and explore Nename with a thief's sense. Perhaps it would even result in finding the two animus that were here. Thieves often found out little truths that outright asking couldn't discover.

He shifted in the saddle, eyes captivated by a gleaming necklace on a passing pedestrian. Gold-plated links and precious stones set in the glimmering matrix, easily worth thirty coin. His fingers twitched.

Nearby, Alaris sighed in defeat. “We'll be staying at Bull's Run,” she said, turning to catch Sleet's attention. “So go before your restlessness makes me uneasy.”

He stared at her. It came off as permission annoyed the hell out of Sleet. He wasn't her whipping boy, and he certainly didn't respond to her orders. But then, he'd take what he could get as long as it meant she didn't send Raven sniffing after him.

“Not that I needed your approval,” Sleet said, and slid down from his horse, handing the reins over to Alaris. He grabbed his pack, sliding it over his shoulder beneath the weight of the cloak.

A stranger bumped into him from behind, but it was casual and not an attempt at thievery. The crowd here was tight and him stopping in the middle had confused the flow. They milled around Sleet, casting dirty looks at the foursome.

Blue eyes regarded him with disapproval. “I would tell you not to steal, but it seems you're incapable of ignoring your desires. Just don't get caught.”

“As if I would,” Sleet retorted, mildly offended that she thought so little of his skills. Frost had been the only one to catch him, and once the thief had given him tips, no one ever had a chance at catching Sleet again.

He turned away from his teammates, catching a big breath of freedom. He loved crowds. It was so much easier to blend in and hide. And so much easier to pick a pocket. Ah, there was three gold right there. Ripe for the plucking. They made a nice sound as he dropped them into his money pouch.

“Wait!”

Sleet frowned and turned.

Tungsten was struggling to dismount without making a mess of things. He barely avoided tripping over the length of his robes before he dropped to the ground in a disheveled mess.

“I'll go with you,” Tungsten said, grinning as he grabbed his own pack and tossed the reins to Raven who caught them with a scowl. Karasu cawed in dislike on his shoulder.

Oh, how the tables had turned.

Snow landed on Sleet's bare head and he shivered, pulling up the hood of his cloak. “I guess you can come,” he said, though it would put a severe crimp in his thieving style.

He'd have to lose Tungsten somewhere that would keep the mage's interest. A bookstore or something equally boring.

“Just remember we're here for a reason,” Alaris reminded the both of them. “Asclepius should provide some help in locating the animus.”

Yeah, because that was Sleet's entire reason for seeking out freedom. “We'll keep that in mind,” Sleet said, and waved a dismissing hand.

He didn't wait for Alaris to say anything else. He dove into the press of the crowd, heading for the main streets, though Nename seemed to be constructed of randomly placed roads and alleyways. Tungsten remained latched at his side with disappointing tenacity, despite the way he watched their surroundings  
with a childlike wonder.

“You've never been in a big town before?” Sleet asked.

“I have, but it is still fascinating to be somewhere new.” He lifted a hand, watching as snowflakes dropped onto his gloves before melting away. “The snow here is different than in Yokoto. It's too wet.”

Sleet had never been to Yokoto, not that he wouldn't like to go. “Snow has a tendency to do that.”

Tungsten matched strides with him as they turned down a narrow alley connecting one street to the next. “I must admit a second purpose in coming along with you,” he said, in a confusing, illogical segue.

A knot of uneasiness curled in Sleet's belly. He massaged his bruised shoulder. Alaris had done a good job of patching him back together, though the mended skin itched on occasion.

“Oh?” He kept his curiosity light, almost apathetic. A

His gaze swept through the crowd as the alley spilled them into a street lined with vendors and heavy with the smell of food. His stomach grumbled.

“Your friend,” Tungsten said, casting Sleet an askance look. “Frost-san... he is more than a friend, isn't he?”

Sleet winced. “You seem pretty stuck on that fact.”

“Only because Raven-san seems to think it particularly relevant.” Tungsten tilted his head to the side. “And I must admit, I do as well.”

“What? Don't want to be associated with a fag?” Sleet said, bristling.

“That's not what I mean,” Tungsten corrected, his cheeks turning a faint pink. “I merely wondered if he really was your boyfriend like Raven-san said. And whether you were okay.”

Was this Tungsten being concerned for him? Though why he would bother, Sleet wasn't sure. His frown deepened.

“I don't see how that's important. Raven has a different opinion regarding myself for personal reasons,” Sleet said, refusing to apologize for what might have been an overly defensive reaction. Too many years of rotten judgment made him bitter.

“But you're with us for him, right? Isn't that what you said?”

“No,” Sleet corrected, snorting at the mere thought that his actions were for anyone's sake but his own. “I'm doing this for me. Demons are trying to kill me and I want to know why. Frost is just coincidence.”

“Is he?”

Sleet twitched. “Yes,” he said, and distracted himself by sliding his fingers into the coat of a passing pedestrian, procuring a silver pocketwatch worth at least twenty coin, give or take.

He hefted it again. No, not silver. Tungsten. How ironic.

Sleet tucked it into one of his pouches. Would he be able to find a suitable fence in time? How long would it take for them to find these animus anyway? Longer than the previous one? Shorter? Sleet wished he knew more.

He scanned the crowd again, looking for another easy mark. There were so many expensive looking pockets around him, and most of these citizens didn't pay enough attention to their surroundings.

“Sleet-san,” Tungsten sighed disapprovingly.

Sleet shrugged. “I am what I am. Besides, it's not like these rich bastards are going to miss it.”

“That's not the point.”

“It is to me,” Sleet retorted. “What do you do for money then, if you're just learning?”

Tungsten tilted his chin up. “My master and I performed minor spells and cantrips for a nominal fee,” he said, face darkening at the mention of his now deceased teacher. “I was especially good at renewing barrier spells and hearth charms.”

If he could just keep Tungsten babbling about his personal life, maybe he'd leave off questioning Sleet about his own.

“What made you decide  
to become a mage?” Sleet asked, taking a coin out of his pockets and flipping it over his fingers.

It was a skill that Frost had taught him some time ago, telling him to practice everyday for dexterity's sake.

Sleet had protested at first. Mostly because he couldn't do it and it made him feel like a fool. And then he learned the benefits, and now, it was a habit he could perform without thinking.

Gold danced across his knuckles, back and forth, occasionally catching a flash of light.

“I didn't really seem suited for anything else,” Tungsten said, and when Sleet raised a brow, Tungsten chuckled deprecatingly. “I'm a bit too clumsy for anything delicate, and I don't exactly have the build for anything physical. Thus, the magic. Master Sanami was kind enough to take me on, even at my age.”

Oh, right. Tungsten was actually older than Sleet. Sometimes, it was hard to remember that as Tungsten acted young and naïve. Also, innocent.

Tungsten's tone turned melancholy but Sleet wasn't ready for an emotional fallout. He was the last person Tungsten should look to for comfort.

He frantically scanned the shops, and felt a surge of relief when he saw an apothecary and herbalist, side by side with doors flung wide open. Sleet caught a whiff of their wares, a mix of pungent incense and dried plants. The perfect place to ditch an overly emotional mage.

He urged Tungsten that direction. “Well, it seems to be working for you,” Sleet said, fighting around the crowd to get to the other side. There were so many people here!

“Except for the fact that I don't exactly have a teacher anymore,” Tungsten said with a long sigh. “Alaris is no mage herself. What she can teach me is limited.”

“What about Asclepius?” The doorway was just there. Sleet craned his neck, peering inside. It didn't appear to be too crowded. Even better.

“Asclepius?” Tungsten frowned.

Sleet entered into the torch-lit shop, feeling a wash of warm air waft over his face. The fire in the hearth was blazing, radiating heat against the incoming cold. The smell of incense was even more acrid.

“You said that the power comes from the gods, right?” Sleet continued, dragging Tungsten deeper into the shop and toward the back where shelves and shelves of glass bottles and vials gleamed in the flickering torch-light. “Why can't she teach you?”

Tungsten blinked. “I... never thought about asking,” he said and his cheeks tinted pink. “That's brilliant, Sleet!”

It wasn't really, but so long as Tungsten thought so, Sleet wasn't going to argue. “Whatever works.”

Sleet gestured toward the containers neatly arranged on the shelves. “See anything you like?”

Tungsten's eyes flickered to the shelves, and rounded in utter astonishment, like he'd just noticed. He sucked in a surprised breath, moving toward the case so quickly that Sleet feared he would trip over his robes and make a mess.

“Saffron? And Wonderwyld? By Fafnir, they even have Solanum!” Tungsten reached for the aforementioned items with childish enthusiasm. “I haven't seen a selection as this in weeks!”

Tungsten dropped a hand to his money pouch, jingling the coins inside. He mumbled something under his breath about how much he could afford and how much he actually wanted.

“That's great,” Sleet piped up, rather pleased with himself.

“More than great!” Tungsten said, plucking a vial off the shelf and examining it. “I'd been running low.”

Sleet ever-so-casually backed away slowly, trying to blend into the shadows. The floor didn't so much as creak as he edged toward a curve in the aisles.

Tungsten didn't notice his retreat, frowning over one glass bottle and then another, indecisive. A perfect getaway, if Sleet did say so himself.

_Cruel, Sleet. Very cruel._

Sleet slipped around a corner and into another aisle, still able to hear Tungsten muttering to himself. _'Tungsten knows the name of the inn. And I don't need a chaperone. He's a full-grown adult.'_

_Whatever helps you sleep at night._

_'I don't need any judgment from the parasite,'_ Sleet said, rolling his eyes as he slid back into the icy cold of the late afternoon, the snow falling with increasing thickness. _'Besides, I have shit to do and Tungsten doesn't belong where I'm going.'_

_Ah, so it's for his protection then. How noble of you._

Sleet ignored the sarcasm. So what if Erebus disapproved?

Sleet blended into the crowd, moving with the flow rather than fighting against it, and letting his instincts guide him.

Every city, every town, no matter how pious, upstanding, and safe, always had a section that housed its dregs. Those on the lower rungs of society. The places were the authorities knew better than to enter, and the so-called criminals could move freely. Sleet knew that once he located Nename's, he would be privy to information that Alaris and her mercenary guard dog wouldn't.

Dark alleys and twisting streets took him into the heart of Nename, amid cluttered roadways and buildings scrunched together so they shared heat through walls. It was as if Nename had been built from the inside out, with newer, better things moving to the outskirts, and leaving the innards to rot like an infectious disease.

Sleet wouldn't exactly call the structures dilapidated, but they were certainly on their last legs. And as Sleet kept to the shadows, knowing that his build was likely to get him in as much trouble as a woman walking through here defenseless, he saw others walking with the same sneaky determination. It only confirmed that he was in the right place, even as he noticed that most of the darker, grittier alleys seemed to flow to the same place.

Sleet crept through a narrow corridor that dumped him onto a muddy path surrounding a squat establishment that barely looked tall enough to house any patrons. In fact, it was only as tall as himself.

Confused, Sleet circled around until he found a dip in the ground, steps notched into the dirt and lined with wood. Descending, he found a rounded door, orange light peeking around the hinges. The low murmur of conversation could be heard from behind the thick wood.

Holding his breath, Sleet grabbed the thick twine that served as a handle and tugged, staggering backward as the door swerved outward. He was smacked in the face with wet, heated air and Sleet winced, overcome by the smell of sizzling, smoked meats and hearth smoke.

He went inside, pulling the door shut behind him, and found a hallway with a low ceiling. A few feet later, the corridor dropped into a few more stairs before bottoming out at a thick, wood floor. lasting a few feet before it dropped into a few more stairs, and finally, wood flooring.

Half of the building was buried in the ground. Well, that was one way to make sure the law couldn't peek in the windows.

No one looked up as Sleet entered the common area. The crowd was thinner than what he was used to at the Cock's Walk, but the patrons were no less dangerous. Sleet caught sight of more than a few naked blades.

Tables were scattered over a clean floor, nearly every chair occupied by men and women alike, all dressed in layers of clothing despite the heat pouring out of the huge firepit at the back of the room. Sleet didn't make contact with anyone as he moved to the bar, but he did open his ears to passing conversation.

“--sweeping over the ground like a Gilgamesh-be-damned plague, is what they are. Ev'rytime I turn around I hear of another one attacked.”

“Tawnry ain't but ash, or so I heard. And then they swarmed through Gwartney.”

Sleet climbed onto stool as he focused on the last conversation. Gwartney? They had just left the place and it was attacked?

It had to have been Frost and Balaam.

“Haven't seen you round here before.”

Sleet swung his attention to the bartender, who was peering at him with one eye, the other gone, leaving behind a thick, puckered scar.

Sleet held up a copper coin, then slid it across the counter with a long scrape of metal over wood. “Drink doesn't need recognition,” he said, tapping the coin. “Rozlin. Twice over.”

The barkeep picked up the coin, swinging a towel over his shoulder. “You came through Gwartney?” He eyed the copper before sliding it into a pocket in his apron.

Considering that the coin had the forge stamp of Gwartney on it, the question was logical. And it seemed the city was the talk of the bar this evening.

“Weeks ago,” Sleet said, tapping his fingers on the counter, tracing carved letters, numbers, and runes in the wood. “I was gone long before the excitement.”

“Excitement?” A man to Sleet's left repeated, snorting as he leaned against the counter, one elbow holding up his massive bulk. “It wassa slaughter.”

The bartender wandered away, hopefully to acquire Sleet's drink, so Sleet turned toward the slurring stranger. His face drooped like a bull dog, layers of skin wrinkling over and over. And his eyes were sunken in his face, bleary with drink.

“So much for the gov's vaunted militia then, ne?” Sleet said.

“Fell like playing cards, yeah,” the man said with an over-vigorous nod. He lifted his cup to his lips, spilling half over his chin, and wiped at it with the back of one hand. “The world's goin' ta shit faster than an outhouse, sure enough.”

“And that isn't even the worst of it,” the bartender grumbled as he reappeared, sliding a mug in front of Sleet. “Word going around says that elusive bastard is behind it all.”

Sleet sipped at his Rozlin and listened.

If there was one thing the dregs of society valued more than their obsession of choice – murder, sex, precious objects, drugs, etc – it was information. Rumor or gossip or truth or fiction. The path to the ultimate treasure could be found in any one of them. And in Sleet's world, information was the one thing shared freely, unless it became more valuable than camaraderie. Luckily, this particular information was already commonplace. Sleet wouldn't have to work for it.

“Who?” Sleet asked, grinning as the Rozlin slid smooth and bubbly down his throat, sweet, full and dark-bodied. His favorite.

“The one thief who ain't never been caught,” the patron on Sleet's left mumbled around his mug, and on closer examination, Sleet noticed the scars on the back of his hands.

Burned and blackened, the mark of an once-caged thief. The brands served two purposes, reducing the criminal's dexterity and making his profession more obvious to others. One hand was the first warning for a captured thief. Another hand was the second. There were no third chances.

Sleet's skin crawled at the sight of them. He had escaped punishment for his chosen profession. There was a dose of gratitude to Frost in that. If not for his lessons, Sleet might have suffered the same fate.

“I met him once, yanno,” the branded thief continued, signaling to the bartender for another drink. “Arrogant and cold, but damn talented. Just ain't right.”

“Here, here,” the barkeep agreed, sloshing more alcohol into the man's mug.

“Met who?” Sleet asked, drinking heavily of his own mug and smacking his lips in delight.

Both men gave him a strange look. “The lord of Kurnugia himself, of course,” the old man said, brow scrunching. “He's always been after the... what was it, Otto?”

“The perfect gem,” the bartender – now identified as Otto -- said, snapping his towel off his shoulder and scrubbing mindlessly at the counter.

“Yeah.” The unnamed man nodded, sinking lower on his stool. “I remember now. I wonder if he found it yet.”

“Obviously not if he's attacking Gwartney to get it.” Otto frowned, shaking his head. “Though it don't seem to be his style. He's always been about shadows.”

Shadows?

Sleet leaned forward eagerly.

He had heard rumors of the so-called lord of Kurnugia, the underworld. It was one of those secrets that were worth a lot of money, that were worth dying for. The identity of the man who had his fingers in everything, who knew everything and how to get it. The man that everyone in the dark underbellies of society respected and feared.

Otto was distracted as someone called for a drink further down the counter, leaving Sleet with his garrulous friend. Who seemed quite willing to provide answers.

“The perfect gem?” Sleet prompted, and took a coin out of his pocket, setting it on the counter. Silver gleamed, polished and enticing, as he slid it across the wood.

Bleary brown eyes glanced down at the coin and up at Sleet again. “There's rumors of lots of those,” the old man said carefully, and when Sleet slid another coin over, he amended, “but only one that claims to have captured the yeralti efendisi's interest.”

Sleet wasn't sure what language that was, but he got the basic gist of it. Wherever the old man's origins were, that must have been the name for the  
underworld lord. Whoever he was.

“Which one is that?” Sleet asked, sliding his empty mug onto the counter in hopes that Otto would return and take it upon himself to give Sleet a refill.

The old man's eyes took on a distant look. “The amethyst,” he said. “Striations of blue, darkened to purple, the perfect one. The only one of its kind. The rarest in the world.” His eyes dilated, the black nearly swallowing the mud-brown of his iris.

“Amethyst?” Sleet repeated, and nearly forgot to breathe. That sounded just like...

“Who is he?” Sleet demanded, ready to put down an absurd amount of coin if necessary. He had to know.

“Don't you know?”

The question came from behind Sleet.

He whirled, coming face to face with another man, who was a little taller than Sleet himself, had he been standing.

Or at least Sleet thought it was another man. He was pretty enough to be mistaken for a woman in the wrong lighting. Blond curls settled loosely around a heart-shaped face. Green eyes watched Sleet with amusement, his lips pulled into a smirk. The only thing to mar his attractiveness was a thin scar curving around his face just to the left of his right eye and ending in the middle of his cheek.

“Beryl,” the old man now to Sleet's right greeted. “Haven't seen you around in a while.”

Beryl inclined his head. “Hey, Nadir. I had a little business to take care of in the east. And you know how those barbarians can be.”

Nadir grinned. “Right savages they are. I hope they didn't try to steal yer virtue.”

“Didn't know I had any left,” Beryl said, and invited himself to the empty seat on Sleet's other side. “Sides, it would take a serious set of nads to steal from a thief. Ne, Sleet?”

He frowned. “How do you know my name? Who the hell are you?”

Beryl waved dismissively, and signaled Otto, who brightened at the sight of him and hurried over. “You're pretty distinctive.” Beryl turned back toward Sleet with that easygoing grin on his face. “You look just like he said, though it was the eyes that confirmed it.”

“Hey, Beryl. Been a while,” Otto said as he arrived.

The three traded small talk that Sleet ignored. How in the seven pits did Beryl know him? Who would have described Sleet? Certainly not Alaris. Or Usoff and Yaris.

Stealing from another thief? Why was that familiar?

Sleet felt something inside of him stutter in understanding as the pieces clicked into place.

“Frost,” he said aloud, gathering Beryl's attention and that of Otto's and Nadir's as well. “You know Frost.”

“Of course I do,” Beryl said, and put a finger to his lips. “But don't say it so loudly. He doesn't go by that name here.”

“Yeralti efendisi,” Nadir said with a crooked grin, drinking from a refilled mug and wiping at the foam on his upper lip. “I recognized ya, too, Sleet, though I hadn't planned on saying anything. “Spose Beryl can't help being confrontational though.”

Who the hell are these people?.

And Frost! Frost was the lord of the underworld? When had that happened? He wasn't much older than Sleet himself, barely thirty. Not that it didn't suit him.

Sleet could just see the arrogant bastard sitting on a throne, smirking as he issued orders and slaves knelt at his feet.

Beryl sniffed. “Though really, the way he was going on, you'd think Sleet was some sort of beauty.” He turned up his nose, looking down at Sleet from the rounded tip of it. “He's just common.”

Sleet had the feeling he had just been insulted; he ignored it in favor of what was more important: information. “How do you know Frost?”

“It amuses me that you don't know,” Beryl said, playing with the rim of his glass, whiskey gleaming within. “This is Frost's town.”

His town? Okay, so they were fuck buddies in the end, but still. Sleet hadn't known any of this.

“What the hell is he doing, Beryl?” Otto asked, while Sleet was busy gaping. “Rumors are that he attacked Gwartney.”

The blond shook his head. “I don't know. No one does. Whatever he's doing, it doesn't involve Kurnugia.”

Kurnugia. One of the more common names among the criminals for a dark network of spies and thieves and murderers, banded together for a common purpose. Connected to the black market, whose location was a mystery except for those who actually knew where it was. And that was definitely not common knowledge. Sleet himself didn't know where the black market was, though he had suspected Frost did.

_“Where is it?”_

_Frost smirked, his fingers skirting down Sleet's back and tracing over reddened welts, inspiring a spark of pain that made Sleet shiver. “I don't think you're quite ready for that yet.”_

_Sleet bristled, turning a glare over his shoulder as best he could manage in his current position. “I've gotten this far on my own.”_

_“Then you don't need me to find it, do you?”_

_Sleet huffed, and then moaned as he felt Frost's tongue drag up his back, across the marks from the lash, ending with a nibble at the back of Sleet's neck. He arched into the touch, his arousal digging an angry hole into the bed. The mattress shifted as Frost crawled over him, his chest hot and sweaty against the heat that radiated across Sleet's back._

_Desire chased away his questions. Frost was always so damn good at that._

_Sleet wanted more. No talking. Just **more**._

A finger prodded him in the arm, and Sleet smacked it away without thinking, fixing Beryl with a glare. The other man – whom he assumed to be a thief judging from his connection to Frost – lifted a brow at him.

“I don't suppose you would know what's going on with Frost?”

Sleet did. Possibly. But he wasn't going to tell any of them that. Because then it would reveal the truth about himself. And that, he wasn't too keen on sharing.

“If you haven't noticed,” he said with a huff. “Frost never told me anything.”

Beryl watched him. “So it would seem. One can't help but wonder why.”

“Hell if I know,” Sleet said, turning away from Beryl and staring into his mug.

“Hmm.” Beryl shook his head and drained the last of his mug. “Thanks for the drink, Otto. You know where to find me. I'll be in town for awhile.”

He slid off the stool, patting down the length of his green tunic as though searching for creases or wrinkles.

Sleet had a million questions, but no desire to ask them. There was a way that Beryl carried himself, a way that he looked at Sleet, that implied so much. And a part of Sleet didn't want to know. So he watched Beryl leave without saying another word, wishing his thoughts were in better order that he could actually ask what haunted him.

Who was Frost?

 

****


	16. Hourglass - Chapter Four

Sleet returned to his Rozlin, though it didn't taste as delicious as it had before. He watched Otto and Nadir exchange knowing glances and felt an odd urge to laugh bubble up inside of him.  
  
Nename was Frost's hometown, ironically so close to Sleet's own. How had he not known this?  
  
At the far side of the room, the main door slammed open, causing all patrons to stop in the middle of the conversation and glare at the offender. No criminal announced his presence like that. He knew far better. And it would be suicide for a member of the law to venture here.  
  
Sleet reacted like everyone else, fingering one dagger and glancing over his shoulder.  
  
Aesir be damned.  
  
What the fuck was Raven doing here?  
  
Sleet turned back toward the bar.  
  
Perhaps if he pretended he didn't notice the mercenary, Raven would not be able to locate him. If indeed that was Raven's purpose here. For all Sleet knew, he enjoyed drinking with the dregs of society, though Sleet was more sure that Raven considered it beneath him.  
  
The hairs at the back of Sleet's neck prickled. He could have sworn that the ever-present voice in the back of his head was smirking.  
  
Nadir slipped from his stool and vanished into the crowd as Otto moved to the other end of the counter, though he never stopped watching Sleet.  
  
Sleet was left exposed, and he had a sinking feeling he knew the reason behind their sudden desire to be somewhere else. His fingers curled around his mug as he felt a stare burning between his shoulder blades where it proceeded to make an outright nuisance of itself.  
  
“What do you want?” Sleet growled, his shoulders tightening.  
  
“Get off the stool. We're leaving.”  
  
Sleet twitched. “No,” he said, and focused his anger into a sharp heat through his eyes that he whirled to direct at Raven. It was no Frost glare, but it was potent enough.  
  
He had all of a moment to see Raven's own eyebrow twitch before a meaty, mercenary hand shot out, aiming for Sleet. Having tensed in anticipation of such a move, Sleet was already sliding off the stool and ducking under the reach in a swirl of black cloak, not a motion wasted. He ended up behind Raven as the mercenary swiped at an empty stool.  
  
“You're like a child,” Raven snarled, whirling furiously, his grey eye flashing with annoyance.  
  
“And you're just a brute with half a brain,” Sleet shot back, well aware that they were drawing a crowd.  
  
“Will you shut up and mature a little?” Raven demanded with a low hiss. “There's a reason we're here.”  
  
“And I haven't found them yet,” Sleet retorted, whirling on a heel and stalking toward the door, trying and failing to ignore the dozens of eyes that watched the unfolding drama.  
  
“They found us first.” Raven stalked after Sleet with a determined clomp to his step.  
  
It was noisy. It was too loud for a simple wood floor.  
  
There must have been more rooms beneath the main because normal flooring didn't sound like that, no matter who walked on it. Sleet hadn't realized that earlier. And then Raven's words clicked and he turned back toward the mercenary.  
  
“What do you mean they found us first?”  
  
It appears that these animus have fully accepted their anima, Erebus answered before Raven could. Interesting. They are broadcasting widely, however. We must teach them to shield before Frost takes notice.  
  
“If he hasn't already,” Sleet murmured.  
  
“What was that?”  
  
Sleet threw a glance over his shoulder. “I said, you didn't need to come fetch me.”  
  
Raven visibly clenched his jaw. “Alaris wanted you immediately. Before we had to search the jails.”  
  
Sleet twitched. “How does it feel to be a loyal dog?”  
  
“I don't know; you tell me,” Raven retorted, looming over Sleet and making the flesh at the back of his neck prickle. “Frost certainly has you trained.”  
  
Sleet bit his tongue on a prompt insult, refusing to allow Raven to bait him into another juvenile argument. He was trying to be the better adult here, even if Raven made it damn near impossible.  
  
He should slip into the shadows and leave Raven behind. Sleet could find the Bull's Run on his own eventually though letting Raven guide him would cut back on travel time.  
  
Tche. All of Sleet's comebacks seemed childish anyway.  
  
 _Probably because they are._  
  
Sleet twitched again. A voice slipping into his mind would never become commonplace to him, he was certain of it. _'No one asked your opinion.'_  
  
Erebus chuckled. _I am here to offer it_.  
  
' _Spare me the lecture,_ ' Sleet snarled and tried to block off Erebus in his mind.  
  
He turned his thoughts elsewhere, hoping Erebus would lose interest and stop his unwelcome commentary.  
  
Sleet longed for his life of a couple weeks ago, when he'd been nothing more than a thief looking for the next easy mark and a good mug of Rozlin at the end of the day.  
  
Simpler, easier times.  
  
Times when Frost had only been his occasional, weekly if he was being honest, fuck.  
  
Sleet's world had turned upside down since then.  
  
Frost was his enemy now, and apparently, the leader of Kurnugia, the capital of the underworld and black market.  
  
Frost was barely thirty! Perhaps a few years over if Sleet was being rude. How could he be the lord of Kurnugia?  
  
Frost never talked about himself. Which was fine because Sleet never talked about himself either True Frost had yanked some secrets out of him in the middle of a romp between the sheets, but they didn't sit and talk. Their relationship wasn't a relationship. It was just a collection of hours spent screwing the daylights out of each other. Nothing more.  
  
In the end, what did Sleet really know about Frost?  
  
 _At last you see a semblance of reason_ , Erebus said, his sigh of exasperation like a trickle of wind across the back of Sleet's skull. _Knowing Frost as you – or don't rather it seems – can you claim his connection to Kurnugia impossible?_  
  
Sleet frowned, considering. He'd be lying to himself if he said yes.  
  
Frost was a mystery, and while that had always aroused Sleet, intrigued him to the point of continuing their liaisons, it served him no answers now. Frost wasn't just good as a thief, he was damn good, and he did have the tendency to vanish for weeks at a time, often coming back with smug superiority practically wafting from his pores. He was always full of lust in those times, something Sleet had benefited, but he hadn't paid much thought as to why.  
  
Sleet's belly tightened in remembrance and he turned his thoughts away from the sex-filled memories and back onto task. There was a very high possibility that Frost was someone important in Kurnugia. Even if he wasn't the lord, he held some position of importance.  
  
Had Frost included all of Kurnugia in his scheme? In his search for the amethyst and whatever it was Balaam wanted?  
  
 _You should let Alaris know. This could be importan_ t, Erebus said.  
  
' _And give Raven more fuel to antagonize me?_ ' Sleet demanded. ' _Like hell_!'  
  
He snorted, and didn't realize he'd done so aloud until Raven tossed him a look, looming over Sleet where he walked at the thief's side. It was agitating to have the mercenary so close.  
  
“Holding conversations with yourself?” Raven asked.  
  
“Just the voices in the back of my head,” Sleet retorted.  
  
Raven clamped a hand on Sleet's shoulder, stopping both of them in front of a massive building.  
  
Sleet shrugged out from under the meaty hand, putting several steps between himself and Raven. He looked up at the building, which was several stories tall with colorful banners draping from the highest floor. He whistled in surprise, fingers itching to explore. There had to be pounds of valuables in there!  
  
“Alaris certainly likes to travel in style,” Sleet said, the Bull's Run screaming opulence and high cost in all the obvious ways.  
  
Did Alaris know nothing about discretion?  
  
“It is the benefit of actually having coin,” Raven said, pushing ahead of Sleet and yanking the door open. “You should try it sometime.”  
  
Grinding his teeth, Sleet followed, only because he didn't have a ready retort dancing on his tongue. He really loathed that man.  
  
Inside the Bull's Run, Sleet was greeted by the smell of a thick, hearty stew. He breathed in the aroma of beef and potatoes in a thick gravy, stomach rumbling in interest. The heat that the fireplace put out turned the snow on his shoulders to water, leaving his hair a bedraggled mess and thoroughly soaking him.  
  
“There's food in the room,” Raven informed him, his presence cutting a swath through the thick crowd of people clogging the inn's reception. “You can wait.”  
  
“It's probably dry bread and water,” Sleet muttered, eyes tracking a platterful of baked personal pies as it wound across the room, trailing a heady scent of apples and cinnamon. Nename was a wealthy town if it could find apples in this season.  
  
His nose wanted to follow as much as Sleet did, but Raven clamped his fingers around Sleet's arm, forestalling his intent. Again.  
  
Sleet didn't bother to pull away this time. Raven was more than capable of man-handling Sleet and he didn't want to waste the effort to break free.  
  
Raven dragged him toward the stairs where the heat of the inn only got worse. Sleet broke into a sweat under his heavy cloak, wishing he could take it off. But Raven's grip was a heavy, relenting weight on his arm.  
  
On the third floor, Raven pulled Sleet to one of the doors, pushing it open without needing a key. The murmur of conversation spilled into the hallway and Raven gestured Sleet in ahead of him like he thought Sleet was going to bolt the minute he turned his back.  
  
Rolling his eyes, Sleet entered the room, feeling Raven looming over him from behind. As Sleet went inside, the conversation stopped. Four pairs of eyes turned toward the door, two pairs unfamiliar.  
  
“Sleet, so good of you to join us,” Alaris said from her position on a chair, a large book draped over her thighs.  
  
“How could I miss it,” Sleet drawled.  
  
Tungsten was already here as well. See? He'd found his way to the Bull's Run without Sleet's help.  
  
The new arrivals though... they were just kids, definitely younger than Sleet. And they were twins, identical twins. The one on the left, in red, looked stronger, with broader shoulders, and carried himself as such. The one on the right, in blue, hunched meekly, as though trying to make himself smaller.  
  
Similar in appearance, not so much in behavior.  
  
“We've already introduced ourselves,” Alaris said with a pointed look Sleet's direction. She gestured to the lone chair in the room. “All that's left is you.”  
  
“Saved the best for last, eh?” Sleet shrugged, tugging off his heavy cloak.  
  
It was hot in here, stuffy, too. Hard to breathe. Thieves didn't like enclosed spaces and he was no exception. There were too many people in this room.  
  
Sleet executed an exaggerated bow, plastering a grin on his lips. “I'm Sleet and yes, I am a thief, and yes, I am quite good at it.”  
  
Behind him, Raven snorted.  
  
Sleet twitched.  
  
The twin dressed in red, who also had longer hair, echoed Sleet's grin. “I'm Adair,” he said and jerked a thumb toward his twin. “And this is my brother Ashur. Neither of us are thieves but we are good at what we do.” The grin lengthened to a smirk.  
  
“And what is it that you do?” Sleet asked, his lips curving with amusement.  
  
A hand shoved Sleet from behind, giving him a push into the room and toward the chair. “Enough flirting, Sleet. We have business to take care of.”  
  
“I wasn't flirting,” Sleet snapped. But he found his chair and sat in it.  
  
They were practically children! If not in numbers than at least in experience! And from the way Ashur kept glaring at him, Sleet was reasonably sure that any flirtation wouldn't be well-received anyway. What was the kid's problem?  
  
Adair chuckled, despite the tension in the air. “I'm not entirely sure you're here by choice, Sleet.”  
  
“Really? What gave you that idea?” Sleet said with an askance look at Raven, who didn't notice the glare, too busy locking the door behind him.  
  
Adair laughed again, shifting his gaze to Alaris. “So that's it then? This is your group that's going to save the world?”  
  
“We don't look like much,” Alaris admitted.  
  
Sleet kept his snort to himself. Much? A half-learned apprentice mage, a brute of a mercenary, a reluctant thief, and a priestess who had probably only stepped ten feet outside the precious boundaries of her temple? And they wondered why he was reluctant to skip into this battle. It would be different if he had an army of trained knights at his back, or a coven of sorcerers, or – yes – a handful of useful gods. But this?  
  
They were doomed and Sleet was the only one who could see it.  
  
“You don't look like anything,” Adair said, despite the white-knuckled squeeze Ashur had on his arm. “But then, neither do we. My brother and I, we aren't fighters. Well, Ashur isn't at least.”  
  
“Unfortunately, we aren't the ones who make that decision,” Alaris said with a sigh, sitting back in her chair. One finger stroked the pages of her book. “The gods do. And they chose you, just as they chose all of us.”  
  
Adair pulled his arm free of Ashur's grip. “One would think they'd have better taste,” he said, shaking his head. “I wouldn't even believe this wild tale if I hadn't heard the voice for myself. And if Ashur hadn't admitted he heard one as well, I would have thought I'd lost my mind.”  
  
“Maybe both of you have gone crazy,” Sleet said, because honestly, it had been his first thought, too.  
  
The majority of Lieve had stopped trusting and believing in the gods a long time ago, leaving many to believe they had never existed. Voices in the head should have only meant one thing – insanity.  
  
Adair grinned, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I entertained that thought, too,” he replied, more amused than offended by Sleet's words. “Until I met Iblion face to face.”  
  
Yes, Sleet could really come to like this guy.  
  
“Iblion?” Tungsten asked.  
  
Ashur nodded, speaking up for the first time. “Iblion speaks to my brother the same that Fafnir speaks to me.”  
  
Tungsten looked at Alaris, begging for information. “And they are?”  
  
Tapping her fingers on her book, Alaris smiled. “The breath and fury of Lieve, respectively.”  
  
Sleet made a face. “And in regular Common that would be?”  
  
“Air and Fire, you moron,” Raven answered before anyone else could, crossing his arms and leaning against the door. “Read a damn book.”  
  
“After you,” Sleet snapped. “Or can a lapdog even read?”  
  
“Enough!” Alaris hissed, her voice cutting between them like a sharply thrown dagger. “By the gods, this war will be lost because you'll kill each other, not our own damn enemies!”  
  
Sleet pressed his lips together. It was hardly his fault alone. Raven couldn't keep his damn mouth shut either.  
  
 _And who was the one attempting to be the better man here?_  
  
 _'My patience only stretches so far. He just keeps pushing.'_  
  
 _Because you respond like he wants you to. Raven is a bully, Sleet. And admittedly, you aren't the best of men either_. Erebus sighed, a resigned sound. And here I am. Stuck with you. So don't believe this entirely your own sacrifice. I would prefer another partner myself.  
  
 _'So why don't you flitter away and find someone else?'_  
  
Erebus gave the impression of a man tapping his foot against the ground. _As I said before, I did not choose this. He did. And I can only obey._  
  
Sleet's brow crinkled. ' _Who_?'  
  
Erebus didn't answer, and Alaris' conversation with the twins hijacked Sleet's attention. “--ignore them. I'm surrounded by children.”  
  
Adair waved a dismissive hand. “I have to admit, you're a lot different than Iblion led me to believe. I was half-expecting a somber faced group of old men and women.”  
  
“The only somber one here is Raven,” Tungsten said with a laugh, only to stop midway and cast a glance at the mercenary, hoping not to draw Raven's ire.  
  
Raven either didn't notice or didn't care, his face set with a mulish glower.  
  
“So I noticed,” Adair said. “So... everyone here has an anima, right?”  
  
Sleet jerked a thumb toward Raven. “Except big and burly over there. He's just hired muscle with a bone to pick.”  
  
Raven's hands clenched on his arm, a low growl rising in his throat. His mouth opened, but Alaris rose to her feet, cutting him off.  
  
“Are you decided then?” she asked, laying her book to the side and combing her fingers through her hair, pulling it to lay across one shoulder. “Will you be joining us in our quest?”  
  
The twins exchanged glances with one another, silent conversation passing between them. Judging from facial expression alone, Adair was prepared, but Ashur reluctant. Though they must have already discussed things prior to coming here. It wasn't as if the brothers didn't know why they had tracked Sleet and company down.  
  
Finally, Adair nodded. “We don't want to fight--”  
  
Raven snorted. “Great, another one.”  
  
Adair ignored Raven and continued, “--but we will, for the sake of our home. I don't want to see it become a battlefield.” He tucked his hair behind his ear. “We'll do whatever it takes.”  
  
Sleet wasn't sure that Ashur agreed. There was a look in the kid's eyes – subtle mind you – that implied he wasn't in complete accordance. Like Sleet, he wanted to be far away from battle.  
  
Erebus gave a smirk of approval. Now if only my animus could be as brave as Iblion's. Would I be so lucky?  
  
Sleet ignored the parasite.  
  
“Thank you,” Alaris said, tilting her head toward the twins. “Now that we're agreed, I think it's best that we decide what to do next. And I think that our anima should have a say in it as well.”  
  
Sleet felt the shiver of power creep over his skin, like a cluster of spindly spiders. He grimaced, unsurprised when the air beside Alaris shimmered and Hephaestion phased into view. Aged hands curled around his staff as his gaze swept around the room, though it lingered on Sleet.  
  
“You are right to recognize that we are partners in this as well,” Hephaestion said, his voice low and raspy.  
  
Sleet heard a giggle before he saw her, Asclepius popping into existence with all the subtlety of a hammer to the forge. Accompanying her arrival was a cheery array of sparkles as she latched onto Tungsten, rubbing her cheek affectionately against his.  
  
 _'I hope, for my sake, you are not as affectionate as her,'_ Sleet said, half-imagining getting glomped by the surly Erebus. He shuddered.  
  
Erebus snorted. _Hardly_ , he retorted.  
  
Adair and Ashur were now trading a quick glance, before the already smothering feeling of magic in the room swelled to new heights. Sleet had the urge to get up and open a window, just to feel a breeze and ease the stifling press of magic and heat.  
  
One deity first appeared to Adair's left. Pale green eyes were set wide in a youthful face, his body whipcord lean. An array of tattoos streaked across both cheeks, dark, wavy lines stacked one on top of the other. His hair was cut short and spiked atop his head, and the deity – whom Sleet assumed to be Iblion simply due to his proximity to Adair – wore what amounted to leather armor with a pair of double axes strapped to his back.  
  
To Ashur's right, another deity flashed into existence with a wave of pulsating heat, that swept over them. This god was tall, taller than all of them, his bright-red hair in direct contrast to the glower behind his dark, near obsidian eyes. Two long scars – or markings of some kind – striped his face from below his eyes to his chin. He wore nothing save a pair of long pants and heavy boots, a leather brace of some kind crossing his chest and lined with thin metallic spurs.  
  
Right here was proof that they didn't need Sleet. Here were two deities obviously built for battle. Far better than Sleet was at any rate.  
  
Iblion frowned, one brow twitching. “It is too enclosed here,” he said, and pointed his palm toward the window.  
  
Wind swirled from nowhere, storming toward the window which blew open with enough force to blow the wood and glass open. Cold air washed into the room, chasing away the suffocating heat.  
  
Fafnir shot Iblion a long, measured look, but said nothing.  
  
As the last left, everyone looked at Sleet.  
  
He shrugged, spreading his hands. “We're still negotiating.”.  
  
“Negotiating?” Adair said, arching one brow. “What the hell does that mean?”  
  
“It means that pretty boy here is too scared to accept his anima, so until he does, he'll keep whining about it,” Raven said before Sleet could get a word in edgewise.  
  
Sleet bristled. It had nothing to do with fear.  
  
Okay, so maybe there was a slight terror that his life was going to end at some point during this massive war. Perhaps he could admit an agitation toward the possibility that he would lose himself under Erebus' influence. But Sleet wasn't afraid.  
  
“That's beside the point,” Alaris said with a noisy exhale. “Sleet knows what is expected of him and that's his decision to make. Right now, we need to concern ourselves with what to do next.”  
  
Tungsten sat forward in his chair, blushing as Asclepius snuggled up to his side with an obvious shiver.  
  
“It's cold in here,” she complained as a flurry of snow-dotted wind swept into the room. She burrowed under the edge of Tungsten's cloak, invading his personal space.  
  
Tungsten's blush deepened, but he cleared his throat noisily. “How many animum are left to find?”  
  
“Three,” Iblion answered, crossing his arms over his chest with a creak of leather. The metal rings on his hip jangled. “And the best I can guess is to head north.”  
  
“North,” Asclepius said with a whine. “Where it's even colder? Why couldn't they be in Sanjara?”  
  
“More precisely: Northwest,” Fafnir clarified. He seemed undaunted by the chill entering the room.  
  
Sleet reached for his cloak, pulling it over his shoulders. Even Alaris was drawing into herself, her eyes flickering to the open window and Iblion's stern facade. Heh. Not even she dared make the deity close the window.  
  
Fafnir sighed with the weight of an irate father. “Iblion. Close the window before the humans grow ill.” His tone remained even and measured, but the hint of censure in his voice was unmistakable.  
  
A staring match ensued between the two deities before Iblion twitched and cast a despairing glance at the window. Tacit permission. Asclepius was all too eager to jump up and pull the shutters closed, blocking the flurry of chill.  
  
Fafnir relaxed, if indeed one could call the shifting of his shoulders relaxing, and Iblion tossed the deity an odd, sullen look.  
  
“Just three?” Tungsten asked.  
  
Alaris inclined her head. “If you recall, Balaam has already taken five.”  
  
“Six now,” Sleet corrected, his eyes falling as he remembered Brulee, Tiamat, and the man who had died. The man he had never met and the man he had failed to save.  
  
The man he had been too foolish to help.  
  
“Yes, six,” Asclepius said, dropping back down beside Tungsten, her movements less cheerful than usual. “And there are four of us here – five if you want to include Erebus. Excluding Balaam, that leaves three.”  
  
“And we have to get to them before Balaam does,” Alaris said, her eyes flickering to Hephaestion. “You can't pin them down any closer than northwest?”  
  
Hephaestion shook his head. “No. None of them have accepted the bond yet. Until they do, we walk blind.”  
  
“Just great,” Raven snorted. “Something tells me that Balaam has the advantage here while we stumble around in the proverbial dark.”  
  
“Ooo, big word for you,” Sleet snarked.  
  
“Darthen is to the west,” Ashur said, much to everyone's surprise. “And before it is Toran. We should start there.”  
  
Sleet stilled at the mention of Toran. He really didn't want to go home. Not that he had been driven away or he hated the mere thought of it. But he was pretty damn certain there was nothing and no one to be found in Toran. There never had been.  
  
“We shouldn't bother with Toran,” he said, telling himself that it wasn't an effort to avoid his home. Not at all. “There's nothing there. We should head straight to Darthen.”  
  
Alaris nodded. “And quickly. It's not safe to remain here long.”  
  
“It's not going to make Nename any safer if we left either,” Sleet said. “Gwartney was attacked only days after we left.”  
  
“And how do you know that?” Alaris demanded. “Don't tell me you've finally accepted Erebus.”  
  
Sleet drew his legs up into the chair, managing to sit cross-legged in the small space. “There's a benefit to being a thief.” He smirked. “But more importantly, if Balaam could sense we weren't in Gwartney, why bother attacking?”  
  
“Because I'm shielding you,” Asclepius said, leaping out from beneath the covering of Tungsten's cloak now that the room had warmed. “It's confusing his senses. I guess he hoped to draw us out.”  
  
Draw them out. Just to kill them. To absorb the powers of the deities and to slaughter their human counterparts. But why? Sleet still didn't understand that. What was Balaam after? Why was he throwing their world into chaos? Why was he going against everything he had been created to define? What drove him?  
  
“Why is he doing this?” Sleet asked, his voice slicing through the undercurrent of tension and contemplation. He gained strength, wanting... no, needing to understand this.  
  
“Balaam, I mean,” he added with a faint gesture. “What is he trying to accomplish? What is his reasoning?”  
  
His gaze flickered to Asclepius and Hephaestion, the only deities he truly felt comfortable with. The latter's eyes had fallen to the floor, his fingers curled tightly around his staff. And the look in Asclepius' eyes was filled with sadness, losing their usual sparkle. Erebus, for his part, had gone completely silent, drawing to the darkest depths of Sleet's mind.  
  
“Balaam's reasons are his own,” Iblion answered, his hands tightening where they lay against his arms. “And I am not one to speculate.”  
  
Fafnir inclined his head, something haunted behind his eyes. “Who would dare guess the reasoning of the madness behind a beast?”  
  
“I would,” Sleet insisted, feeling a cold sweep through them that wasn't entirely his own. “I want to know what we're dying for.”  
  
“You're fighting to protect your home and your life,” Iblion growled. “What more reason do you want?”  
  
“It's not enough,” Ashur said, prompting Adair to look at him in confusion. Ashur's back straightened, strength entering his posture for the first time. “The thief's right. It's not enough. I want to know, too.”  
  
“We don't have the answers. And what we do not have, we cannot give,” Fafnir said stiffly. “But you are more than welcome to ask Balaam yourself. Though I suggest you do so away from the innocent masses.”  
  
Sleet bristled, feeling like the deities were avoiding the truth. What did they not want the humans to know? What were they hiding?  
  
He expected Erebus to say something but the deity was noticeably silent.  
  
“You said Balaam was sealed,” Sleet insisted, raising his voice. “Why had he been sealed?”  
  
“That's not important,” Hephaestion said, exchanging a long glance with Fafnir. “The past is past. What matters now is Balaam's current actions.”  
  
“The past is always relevant!” Ashur retorted, louder than anyone could have expected. He rose to his feet. “I don't--”  
  
“Okay! That's enough!” Asclepius leapt to her feet, an invisible presence sweeping through the room and knocking against everyone like a slap to the face. “I think we can all agree this is a topic no one wants to talk about. So can't we just leave it like that?”  
  
Ashur frowned; Sleet seconded the expression.  
  
“I'm not dropping this,” Sleet said.  
  
“Just for now,” Asclepius pleaded, the tension in the room downright unbearable. “I think we can get you the answers but not yet. Please.”  
  
Sleet pressed his lips together. He would not forget this. He would hound Erebus if necessary. He wanted to know what they were all fighting against.  
  
Ashur said nothing. Neither did anyone else.  
  
Asclepius' shoulders sagged. “Thank you. Now Ashur suggested Darthen. I agree with him. Can we just go with that?”  
  
No one opposed.  
  


  
* * * *


	17. Hourglass - Chapter Five

“Ashur and I will need some time to gather our belongings,” Adair said once the deities had gone and only humans were left in the room.   
  
The rest, the gods claimed, they would leave for their animus to decide. Hephaestion had stressed haste, with Iblion's following stare to encourage matters, but otherwise, they returned to their own plane.   
  
Tungsten was disappointed to see them go. The deities were fascinating. And to see what had always amounted to children's tales coming to life before his eyes was something he would have never imagined. Not in his wildest dreams. He felt like a little kid again.   
  
Asclepius chuckled in the back of his mind. _I think it's that reaction that's the cutest._ She giggled at him _. I'll be sure to tell Hephaestion you said that._  
  
Groaning – Asclepius was always teasing him – Tungsten forced himself to pay attention to Alaris, though his eyes kept wanting to stray toward the twins. They fascinated him as well. He had never met a pair of twins before.   
  
“That's fine,” Alaris said, tugging the long strands of her hair into a loose braid. “We have our own supplies to gather. When is the soonest you can leave?”   
  
Ashur, who stood near the window and stared out at the snow-covered streets, answered for the both of them. “We'll be back later this afternoon,” he said, shoulders hunched against an imagined presence. “We can leave in the morning.”   
  
“I can help gather supplies,” Tungsten offered, trying to twist his robes back into some semblance of order. Asclepius' attentions were not without consequence. It still surprised him how very human his anima could act.   
  
Alaris accepted his offer with a friendly smile, before her eyes shifted to Sleet, who was subtly creeping toward the door. “Sleet?”   
  
“I have business I need to handle,” Sleet said. His hands tightened the strings to his cloak, his eyes darting around the room.   
  
Tungsten wished he understood Sleet better, but the other man insisted on being removed from them. It wasn't that Tungsten didn't understand Sleet's opinion on things, but it wasn't helping to be so rude – for lack of a better word.   
  
“Then take Tungsten with you,” Alaris suggested, though it came out with a note of command.   
  
Tungsten thought he ought to protest. He wasn't an idiot. Sleet had abandoned him earlier because he was in the way, and the last thing Tungsten wanted to do was irritate Sleet again. He actually liked the thief and hoped that Sleet's sullen disregard for their quest would pass in time. He hoped.   
  
Fortunately, Sleet didn't seem too interested in the idea either. His nostrils flared. “I work better on my own,” Sleet insisted, backtracking to the door. “A thief has his secrets, you know.”   
  
Adair was watching the conversation between Sleet and Alaris with obvious interest, his pale eyes flickering back and forth between the two. Raven watched, too, but more bored than anything else. And Ashur had barely looked at any of them since showing up at his brother's side. Tungsten was desperate to know more about the both of them, the curiosity eating him alive.   
  
Sleet edged toward the door, obviously planning to make his escape. It would have been amusing were it not for the exasperated disappointment on Alaris' face.   
  
Tungsten was also disappointed. He wanted Sleet to be as dedicated as the rest of them, to realize that it wasn't such a bad thing. But maybe there was something deeper behind Sleet's refusal to cooperate. Something he didn't want to tell them.   
  
“Just don't get caught,” Raven muttered as Sleet slipped by him.   
  
“Not likely.” Sleet snorted, shoulders squared. “But don't worry. I'll leave a nice trail for you to follow when your master orders you to come fetch me.”   
  
Annoyance made Raven's face turn a bright red, but Sleet didn't seem to care. He slipped out the door, letting it slam shut behind him and allowing the rest of the room to breathe out in relief. When Sleet was there, it was like they all danced on the edge of tension. If Tungsten didn't know better, he'd think that Sleet was there just to antagonism them.   
  
Alaris sighed, one hand lifting to her forehead. In Sleet's absence, she looked tired and worn, as though her strength was only a facade.   
  
“Is he--”   
  
“Yes,” Alaris interrupted, preventing Raven from whatever he was about to ask. “He is necessary. If not to help fight, then to keep Balaam from obtaining his powers.”   
  
Raven snorted. “Then we have to protect the little shit?”   
  
“For now,” Alaris answered. “I promise, Raven, you will have your revenge. Think of it as a trial of endurance.”   
  
Raven rolled his eyes.   
  
“Sleet-san is a little obstinate,” Tungsten agreed reluctantly. He wanted to befriend Sleet, but even he saw how monumental a task that would be. “Maybe he just needs some time.”   
  
“There's stubborn and then there's just being an asshole, I'm leaning toward the latter,” Adair said.   
  
“Unfortunately, saving the world has few perks and several annoyances,” Alaris said.   
  
“Let's just hope the last three anima prove to be more useful,” Raven said with a sour tone. He snatched his sword from where he had laid it aside on a chair and slung the belt and sheath over a shoulder. “I'm going out.”   
  
He didn't wait for Alaris to approve, instead slamming out the door with the same amount of noise Sleet had used.   
  
Alaris pressed even tighter against her temple. “My own allies are going to be the death of me,” she mourned. “Why does evil never have this problem?”   
  
At her truly despondent tone, Tungsten couldn't help but chuckle. “I could always whip up a compliance spell,” he suggested.   
  
Her lips quirked into a half-grin. “The effort would be appreciated, Tungsten, but as tempting as that sounds, we can't. Though I'll keep it in mind.” Her eyes flickered to the door. “Would you chase after Raven for me? Remind him why we're here before he gets into an altercation we can't afford.”   
  
Tungsten could just imagine what Raven's surly attitude might cause. They didn't need that sort of trouble. Not right now. Alaris especially didn't need the stress.   
  
In many ways, Sleet and Raven were very much alike, not that Tungsten was brave enough to say so to their faces. Raven was only slightly more cooperative.   
  
“Sure. We'll get some supplies while we're out, too,” Tungsten said, rising to his feet and grabbing his cloak, throwing it over his shoulders.   
  
He couldn't explain it, but the cold here in Nename was much harsher than the cold in Yokoto. He couldn't seem to get used to it.   
  
Alaris' smile was grateful. “Thank you, Tungsten,” she said, and switched her attention to the twins, murmuring a question about their anima that barely hid her glee of scholarly interest.   
  
Chuckling to himself, Tungsten slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him. Sometimes, it was difficult to remember that he was supposed to be the eldest of them. And it was nice to see that Alaris' stern persona was only one of the many masks she wore out of necessity. Much like Sleet's rebelliousness, Tungsten imagined.   
  
' _Any idea where he may have gone to, my dear?_ ' Tungsten inquired inwardly, after a quick scan of the hallway revealed no Raven in immediate sight.   
  
Asclepius laughed. _I'm not a bloodhound, Tungsten. I don't have all-seeing eyes, you know._  
  
' _Even a hint would be nice_ ,' Tungsten conceded, deciding to head for the main room. He hoped to catch Raven at the bar, nursing something strong and and bitter.   
  
She chuckled again. If I had to guess, _I would check the stables. He's pretty attached to his horse._  
  
Tungsten's own lips turn upward into a smile.   
_  
'Thank you.'_  
  
He shifted directions, turning on his heel to take the back stairs that would lead him to the stables. In the process, he almost collided with a serving girl carrying a platter of pastries. Only her graceful twist saved the sweets and Tungsten apologized, much to her embarrassment.   
  
My pleasure, Asclepius said, only to make a strange sound that crossed a squeak and a shout. _Holy... I'm going to be late. I'll be gone for a bit, okay? We're having a meeting and I'm..._ She paused as though checking a clock. ... _Twenty minutes late. Bye!_  
  
Her presence vanished from his mind before Tungsten could work up a proper response or question. He knew, without having to ask, that she'd returned to the immortal plane, wherever that was. Asclepius hadn't brought him tino her world as Erebus had done for Sleet. She said it was dangerous, especially for a fledgling like herself.   
  
Descending the stairs, Tungsten found the back kitchen where a wave of immense heat smacked him in the face. The cooks had the ovens stacked high with wood and as Tungsten inhaled, he smelled the sharp bite of smoked meats and bread. Though he wasn't hungry, he had to admit the odors were enticing.   
  
Tungsten forced himself not to linger, and made his way through the kitchens to the stables beyond, where his nose twitched at the sudden change from baked goods to the scent of equines and freshly turned hay. He sneezed before he could stop himself, the sound startling one of the horses and making it snuffle.  
  
“Raven-san?” he called out, gaze darting into each stall as he passed. “Raven-san?”   
  
“Here,” came the gruff reply from the end of the row.   
  
Tungsten followed the voice to the stall where Flurin was kept, Raven currently brushing down her mane.   
  
“Alaris-san sent me after you,” Tungsten said, watching as Raven-san patted down the horse. “She said for you to not get yourself into any trouble that we can't afford right now.”   
  
Raven snorted. “That speech would be better saved for the resident thief,” he said, rolling his eye. “I'm not the one we have to worry about.”   
  
Tungsten chuckled. “You two are very much alike, Raven-san.”   
  
Raven sneered and drew back from Flurin, leaving her to the warmth and comfort of the stable. “I fail to see the resemblance.”   
  
No, Tungsten didn't suppose he would. Far be it from him to explain it however. He had a feeling it would make Raven-san more tetchy than he already was.   
  
“Alaris-san also suggested that I accompany you. Though what she expects me to do, I don't know.”   
  
“Neither do I.  
  
Raven left the stall, letting the short door swing shut behind him. “But tag along if you must.”   
  
Tungsten obeyed, following Raven out of the stables.   
  
The chill of the afternoon swept over them, Tungsten breathing deep of the crisp air. It tasted like home, reminding him of his parents.   
  
How were they, he wondered. He hadn't contacted them in so long, they were probably worrying themselves into a frenzy over the state of his health.   
  
Raven glanced up at the sky, scanning it. He whistled loudly, making Tungsten start in surprise.   
  
Karasu swooped down from seemingly nowhere, landing on Raven's outstretched arm. One finger scratched over the bird's head as it focused its beady stare on Tungsten.   
  
“You've tamed him well,” Tungsten said.   
  
Raven grunted. “Tame? You don't tame a crow. They come to you if they are in the mood. Much like a cat.” His finger stroked down the bird's back before it hopped onto Raven's shoulder. “Karasu is my partner.”   
  
“Still, it's enviable,” Tungsten said, and grinned sheepishly. “I'm afraid animals have never been too fond of me.” He held out a hand toward the bird, and if to prove his point, Karasu snubbed him with an obvious turn of his beak. Tungsten sighed. “It took me three weeks to get Flynt to listen without a scolding from my master.”   
  
Raven lifted one brow. “It's the uncertainty,” he said, leading Tungsten around the side of the inn toward the main thoroughfare. “Animals can sense it.”   
  
The uncertainty? Tungsten wasn't even going to begin to guess he knew what Raven meant. He supposed Raven was right, however. He was more learned in these matters.   
  
Raven seemed content to lead the way and Tungsten followed, absorbing the sights and sounds and smells and colors. It was hard not to. Nename was so vibrant, even for the cold and the slush and the crowds. It was a different sort of city than Tungsten was used to.   
  
Yokoto was large for its location, but it had nothing on Nename. Even Gwartney was of a different sort of size. Tungsten never would have believed all those years ago he would have had the chance to see so many different places.   
  
In all honesty, it had taken much begging and pleading on his part to convince his parents to let him undertake Master's teaching. They had rejected it at first. He was, after all, their only child and even then somewhat of a miracle. In many ways, it had felt like a betrayal to want to leave their clinging affections. And in others, it had felt so freeing.   
  
Even now, Tungsten felt trapped between what he should have done and what he wanted to do.   
  
He babbled about nonsense things. Raven only listened. He didn't respond and well, Tungsten didn't mind so much. The inane blather was to fill the silence more than anything else. Tungsten often found that he thought less about the things that bothered him if he chattered on about unimportant matters.   
  
The people here were much more colorful than those in Yokoto. Though about the same size, Nename was so different than Tungsten's hometown. He'd almost dare guess they were complete opposites. Yokoto was tradition and old money. Nename was flashy and loud.   
  
It was hard to get accustomed.   
  
He and Raven had visited two shops by the time Tungsten noticed the familiar head of brown hair in the crowd. Though it had taken some effort considering Sleet's lack of height.  
  
Just what was Sleet's business in Nename? Why was he in such a hurry to leave earlier? These questions and more plagued Tungsten's curious mind.   
  
“There's Sleet-san,” Tungsten said, spying the thief as he moved through the crowd, looking to have no clue to his destination.   
  
Raven ignored him, mulling over a vendor's wares. “Let the thief do what he wants,” he said, Karasu cawing in agreement.   
  
“He looks lost,” Tungsten added, more to himself than to Raven as it was obvious the mercenary didn't care a whit.   
  
Tungsten hummed under his breath, watching as Sleet seemed to search the crowd for something, peering into every open doorway and scanning every face. He hadn't noticed them yet, but then, he was a fair distance away still.   
  
“And that's something new?”   
  
Tungsten sighed, shoulders slumped. “Raven-san,” he admonished, feeling a bit like poor Alaris. “You know, you two might actually get along if you didn't try to antagonize each other so much.”   
  
Raven snorted and avoided Tungsten, stepping into the shop he had been eying. Tungsten glanced at the sign, something for cookware and camping. Well, at least Raven was acquiring their supplies as Alaris had asked.   
  
Pursing his lips, Tungsten turned back toward the crowd. Sleet still stood out despite his lack of height. Tungsten lifted a hand, trying to wave the thief down. “Sleet-san! Sleet!”   
  
Purple eyes – and wasn't that an odd color, purple? Tungsten had never seen eyes that color before – swung the mage's direction. Tungsten could all but see the debate going on behind Sleet's gaze before he started wading toward Tungsten.   
  
“Finished with your shopping?” Sleet asked as he approached, pushing through a couple of elderly women. He twitched, looking uneasy as his eyes kept skipping around the crowd.  
  
Tungsten shook his head, gesturing to the building behind him where Raven was still shopping. “Not yet. We're working on it. Finish your business?”   
  
Letting out a frustrated huff, Sleet dragged his palm over his hair, making the short strands spike up. “No.”  
  
Above them, the sky released an ominous rumble. Tungsten tilted his head back, looking at the gathering grey clouds, near black with impending precipitation. Not something he was looking forward to.   
  
“I think it's going to rain.”   
  
“Great. Just what I need,” Sleet sniped.   
  
“Do you have to do that?” he asked, tired of watching Sleet pretend to be cold and Raven be a bastard and poor Alaris-san stuck in between. How could they protect one another if they disliked each other?  
  
Sleet stiffened and avoided Tungsten's eyes. “Do what?”   
  
“Be so negative,” Tungsten clarified. “You know... Alaris-san and Raven-san aren't exactly happy about having to do this either.” He fidgeted, one hand tugging on a dangling bit of sash. “I mean, I don't think any of us want to die.”   
  
Sleet snorted. “What? The shininess of the moment fading?”   
  
Tungsten frowned, feeling as if he'd been doing that a lot lately. “I'm not in this for the glory, Sleet-san. I'm pretty sure that by the end of it, no one will even realize what happened.”   
  
The fact that he could possibly be a hero had crossed his mind, until Asclepius reminded him that realistically, the whole world didn't even know it was in danger. The populace was simply living their everyday lives, with no clue of their possible fate. In many ways, it was better that way, to live without knowing than to live in fear.   
  
“Then why are you here?”   
  
“Because he'll kill me if I don't,” Tungsten answered honestly. He didn't see any reason not to. He couldn't pretend that he was here for an honorable or unselfish reason. His first and foremost desire was to protect himself. Everything else came secondary.   
  
In that, he was not so much different from Sleet. He was only less obvious about it.   
  
Tungsten plucked at his sash again. “And because of them, my master died,” he added, softer, admitting only to himself that perhaps revenge did play a part. “So will a lot of other people. Good people who don't deserve to suffer.”   
  
Those odd purple eyes stared past him, focusing on something beyond Tungsten's shoulder. “I think your first answer was more honest. Isn't it every little boy's dream to be a hero?”  
  
One reddish brow raised. “Was it yours?”   
  
The door to Cookware and Camping opened with a loud bang and Sleet's gaze shifted toward it, his eyes widening like prey caught in a predator's stare. His entire body stiffened from head to toe.   
  
“The watchdog's done. Better go before he starts to bark,” Sleet said.   
  
Tungsten didn't even have a chance to look over his shoulder before Sleet was gone, sliding into the crowd with all the stealth and skill of an Alpha-class thief. Sometimes, Tungsten forgot just how good at his job Sleet was supposed to be. Tungsten could only watch as Sleet disappeared into the rush of people within moments.   
  
The skin at the back of Tungsten's neck prickled, and he felt Raven's presence long before the mercenary spoke.  
  
“Told you.”   
  
Tungsten turned toward Raven, biting his lip on an acerbic reply. It wouldn't do to add to the animosity. “Let's just finish our shopping before Alaris-san's headache gets any worse.”   
  
“Even you've given up on the thief?” Raven asked, following after him with the heavy tread of a man not used to watching his weight. The complete opposite of Sleet.   
  
He heaved a sack over one shoulder, rattling with supplies.   
  
Tungsten didn't answer, instead turning his eyes to the sky. It really did seem like rain. Or perhaps snow even. Precipitation of a kind.   
  
His skin prickled. There was something in the air. Tungsten could feel it. And he had the feeling, were Asclepius here, she would agree. Something was coming. It would be in their best interest to get out of Nename as soon as possible.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
When the first raindrop splattered on Sleet's brow, he cursed and drew the hood of the cloak over his head. It was just what he needed to cap off a perfect day.   
  
His search had proven fruitless, his fingers were freezing inside their gloves, and Tungsten had decided to start preaching to him. The only saving grace was that Erebus was away at some sort of deity council meaning he wasn't there to criticize and make snotty comments at all of Sleet's actions.   
  
Small favor.   
  
Burrowing further into his cloak, Sleet scanned the crowd, searching for a head of curly blond hair and bright green eyes. Something about Beryl seemed off to him and Sleet would be damned if he let this opportunity pass.   
  
They were going to leave Nename soon and Sleet wanted to find the other thief before then. He was sure Beryl knew something more about Frost, and more importantly, knew something about Kurnugia.   
  
He waited for the snide comment to come only to remember that Erebus was gone. Damn it. That was annoying. When had he gotten used to the deity?   
  
Sweet spices wafted to Sleet's nose and he drew up straight all of the sudden, his rumbling belly reminding him that he'd yet to eat. His head swiveled in the direction of the delicious aroma, mouth watering at the sight of a trio of pies cooling in the open window of a nearby bakery. They smelled like fresh pumpkin or sweet potato, and his stomach gave a growl of interest. It was the season, wasn't it?  
  
He pushed his way through the crowd and purchased two of the palm sized pies, wrapping one carefully for later. Ignoring the heat, Sleet bit into one, the taste of nutmeg and pumpkin spilling over his tongue.   
  
It reminded him of Solstice festivals back in Toran and the massive feasts his father had always spent hours cooking and baking in celebration. For the first time in many years, Sleet felt a longing for home. But after the first bite, it passed, much to his relief.   
  
It wasn't so much that he disliked his home, or his family. Or that he had left Toran in an effort to escape. He simply had no interest in returning. There wasn't anything there that could carry an interest for him.   
  
A flash of blond on the edge of his vision.   
  
Sleet swung his head around, nearly choking as he shoved the last of his pastry into his mouth, his eyes following that pale flash. Blond curls, ten or so steps ahead of him! Maybe Beryl, maybe not, but Sleet wasn't going to let this pass him by. He pushed through the crowd, trying not to lose sight of the head of curly hair.   
  
He caught a glimpse of a green tunic, and – aha! -- a hand surreptitiously diving into the pocket of a passerby. A blond thief? The chances were getting nearer to success.   
  
Sleet pushed between two people, ignoring their indignant shouts, and caught sight of the blond just as he headed straight toward a massive building. There was another glimpse, this time of a familiar scar, and Sleet knew he had found his quarry.   
  
He scurried to catch up.   
  
“Beryl!” Sleet shouted, hoping to catch the thief's attention.   
  
To be expected, Beryl didn't stop. Didn't pause or indicate that he had heard his name being called. He continued to the nondescript building that stood out for its size and nothing else.   
  
Sleet couldn't tell what it was. No board graced the sign pole. The only distinguishing feature were the two men who stood just inside the alcoved doorway, looking like a pair of hired goons.   
  
Beryl disappeared into the doorway behind them, and Sleet attempted to follow. The two goons immediately stepped in his way, one planting his massive, meaty hand on Sleet's shoulder.   
  
“Whoa, there, kid. We don't know you,” the brute on the left said, his gravelly voice requiring a lozenge or four.   
  
Sleet squared his jaw, catching sight of the blond head just behind them. He had paused at the sound of the guard's voices and looked over his shoulder. Their eyes met, wordless conversation passing between them.   
  
“Let me through,” Sleet demanded, never taking his eyes from Beryl's.   
  
The guard on the right shook his head. “Sorry, kid. No brats allowed.”   
  
“I'm not a kid,” Sleet growled, jerking away from their palms.   
  
“Oh, let him through,” Beryl said, his amusement cutting through the rising tension. “He's Frayr's.”   
  
Big and Brawny on the right swung back toward Sleet, raking over him with eyes as dark as coal. “This brat?”   
  
Sleet's eyes narrowed.  
  
“Yes. Believe it or not,” Beryl said. “He's following me.”   
  
The two men look at Sleet again, giving him the once over, this time with more effort. It was like he had been stripped bare and scraped raw with their eyes alone. He shivered.   
  
“Frayr must have taken a hit to the head,” the male on the right muttered, but he moved aside as did his companion, giving Sleet a path to slip between them.   
  
He chose, for their sake, to ignore the comment. Sleet had better things to do than to get entangled with the two moronic guards.   
  
He hurried to catch up to Beryl who had already turned around.   
  
“And they are fools if they can't take one look at you and guess why,” Beryl said with a snort, shoulders hunched as he stepped into the darkened corridor, forcing Sleet to follow.   
  
“Why do they call him Frayr?”  
  
Beryl lifted one hand, waving it dismissively. “I told you he wasn't known by the same name here.”   
  
Sleet twisted his jaw. “You call him Frayr?”   
  
They passed one hall and then another, followed immediately by a string of closed doorways. Their steps were muffled by the thick carpeting. Beryl had obviously memorized the route, though Sleet was already lost.   
  
Pausing, Beryl smirked, his eyes glittering like strange jewels in the half-light. “Of course not.” His eyes flickered over Sleet. “Why are you following me, Sleet?”   
  
“Because you know something about Frost. And I want to know what it is.”   
  
The dim candelabra above them cast a strange mix of light and shadow on Beryl's face. It obscured as much as it revealed, making it difficult for Sleet to read the blond's intentions.   
  
Somewhere down the hall, Sleet could hear laughter, but it was distant to him. Not important in the wake of this conversation.   
  
“What makes you think I know?” Beryl asked.   
  
“Stop playing games with me!” Sleet demanded, his voice loud enough to echo in the hallway. “You knew me on sight! That means you're close to him.”   
  
Though it begged the question as to why Frost would be talking about him. Because he knew Sleet was an anima? That was a possibility. It might have only been that from the beginning. Seducing him for help in obtaining Balaam. And what a rare item the demi-deity was.   
  
Sleet tried not to feel used, but it cropped up anyway. What was he so concerned about? It wasn't like they were lovers or anything.   
  
Beryl lifted his shoulders. “Maybe, maybe not,” he said, turning away from Sleet and heading back down the corridor, his footsteps not even a whisper on the thick carpet.  
  
Sleet thought himself to be stealthy. As much as it burned to admit, Beryl was better in that regard.   
  
“Though I would have sworn you were closer,” Beryl said.   
  
Sleet snorted as they passed another passageway, where the carpeting changed to a tighter weave. The knobs on the doors were made of finer materials as well, silver and gold as opposed to brass and copper. Sleet's fingers twitched.   
  
“Where the hell is this?” he demanded, curiosity growing in leaps and bounds. “And for that matter, where are you taking me?”   
  
“The Thieves Guild of Nename, if you must know,” Beryl said. “For a man of the world, you are so naïve, Sleet.”   
  
Thieves Guild? There were a grand total of five in all of Corynth and Sleet had never cared enough to be included in a single one.   
  
A skilled thief knew his fellow, better thieves, yes, but a true thief kept to the shadows. He didn't band in one place with dozens of others out of some misplaced desire to brag.   
  
Sleet blinked.“What?”   
  
Beryl whirled, fingers snatching around Sleet's arm and shoving him against a door.   
  
A gasp tore from Sleet's lips as the thick wood made a dull thump, his skull bouncing off the door. His mind spun from the abrupt attack as Beryl pressed up against him, lips peeled back over his teeth in a feral snarl.   
  
“I would've expected better of Frost's lover.” Beryl sneered, his eyes near-black in the dim. “You follow me so happily into the dragon's den.”   
  
Sleet shoved against Beryl, heart pounding in his chest. “Let me go.”   
  
“Pretty boys like you aren't my type, but I think I can make an exception,” Beryl said, ignoring Sleet's demand, his hold tightening.   
  
Sleet jerked his arm, hissing, “What the hell--”   
  
The door behind them swung open, throwing Sleet off balance. His free hand flailed for balance and Beryl gave him another shove, forcing him backward into the room.   
  
Sleet stumbled, trying to find his equilibrium, but the edge of his boot caught a ruffle in the carpet. His ankle twisted beneath him and Sleet threw out his arms to catch his balance.   
  
He glared at Beryl as the distinct snick of a lock echoed in the room.   
  
Green eyes watched Sleet in return, Beryl's face carefully blank of anything.   
  
Sleet's ankle throbbed. He reached for a dagger, surprise cascading through him as his thigh sheath came up empty. Damn quick-handed thieves!  
  
He lunged, lashing out at Beryl with a foot, refusing to let the slim blond intimidate him.   
  
Beryl ducked under his attack, moving faster than Sleet thought possible. Sleet shifted his weight to compensate and Beryl rushed him, tackling Sleet backward and onto a bouncy surface. A mattress?   
  
Beryl landed atop him with a quiet grunt, all knees and elbows digging into uncomfortable places.   
  
Sleet hissed, slamming an elbow into Beryl's ribs. The blond hissed and snatched at him. Sleet twisted, throwing himself against the bed as Beryl grabbed his other arm, jerking it back and up, putting fierce pressure on his still healing shoulder.   
  
Pain stabbed through Sleet from all angles. He cried out, going rigid under Beryl's weight.   
  
“Shit!” Sleet seethed, gritting his teeth.   
  
Beryl's chuckle slithered into the semi-dark. “I noticed you were favoring this side. Seems I was right.”   
  
Sleet panted through his teeth. “What the hell are you doing?”   
  
“Haven't you figured it out yet?”   
  
Beryl tugged on Sleet's twisted arm, forcing him to bow under the pressure, manipulate his body as Beryl saw fit.   
  
Sleet jerked as Beryl shoved him face first into the mattress, giving him a mouthful of cotton that stunk of cheap perfume and sweat.   
  
The blond pressed against him from behind, his bony limbs pinning Sleet to the bed, but it was the grip on Sleet's arm that kept him immobile. Pain made bright sparks dance in his eyes.   
  
“So which one is it?” Beryl breathed, his warm exhale washing over Sleet's ear as he nudged a knee between Sleet's thighs.   
  
Sleet turned his head to suck in a breath. “Who?”   
  
“Your replacement for Frost,” Beryl clarified, his tongue curling around Sleet's ear. “Is it the doofy half-mage? The burly soldier? Or do you actually have enough energy for twins?” The blond laughed, his hips swiveling as they ground down against Sleet's backside. “Don't tell me you go for women now, Sleet? We both know how unlikely that is. Even if she does look enough like a bitch to get your masochism going.”   
  
“Have you been... watching me?” Sleet gasped, his feet struggling to find some kind of purchase against the ground.  
  
“Only a little.”  
  
“You... pervert!”   
  
Beryl nuzzled him, pressing his nose and mouth to the side of Sleet's throat. “You say that like it's a bad thing. And I seem to remember you liking Frost very much.”   
  
“Get off me,” Sleet growled, body heaving, but abandoning the effort as the pain in his shoulder approached excruciating. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think.   
  
“Oh, I plan to do that. Eventually.” Beryl released his hold on Sleet's left arm, though he pulled the other up further, until Sleet swore he was going to pull it right out of the socket. “But maybe I should see what had Frost soattached.”   
  
“Attached?” Sleet snorted, his hand slapping out against the covers as he bowed his back, trying to ease the strain on his shoulder. “Seems to me like you're the one who knows more here.”   
  
“Hmm, you may be right,” Beryl said, his free hand sliding along Sleet's arm, from shoulder to wrist. His nails scratched over the back of Sleet's hand. “But you see, I don't know where Frost is. I don't even know what he's doing. I haven't seen him for a year. No one has.”   
  
A year. The killings started a year ago, if Sleet remembered correctly from the rumors he had overheard. What the hell was Frost after? What was he thinking?   
  
“Is that why you were following me?” Sleet asked.   
  
Someone knocked on the door before Beryl could answer.   
  
“Lord Beryl?”   
  
Lord? What the fuck!  
  
Beryl growled. “What?” he shouted.   
  
There was an audible sigh of relief. “Ah, Greham had said he'd seen you. I have a job for you.”   
  
“I'm a little busy right now.”   
  
“It's from Lord Carradine.”   
  
“Carradine,” he murmured, and finally released his hold.   
  
Sleet scrambled forward, across the bed and away from Beryl. He twisted onto his ass, hand grabbing at his throbbing shoulder. His fingers tingled, blood finally restored to the limb.  
  
“So what? You're a mercenarial thief?” Sleet demanded, body tense in preparation to fight or flee, whichever came first.   
  
Beryl ignored him, stalking toward the door and throwing open the lock. “It's urgent?” he asked as the door opened.   
  
The messenger nodded, glancing past Beryl and spying Sleet perched on the bed. “Oh, you were busy,” he said flatly. “Lord Carradine said if you turned him down, he was going to take it Noxley.”   
  
“That moron?” Beryl snorted, fingers tightening on the door. “Fine then. I'm coming. I'm done here anyway.”   
  
“Looks to me like you've barely started,” the messenger said with a smirk. Obviously, he knew Beryl very well, which meant he probably knew Frost as well.   
  
Sleet slid off the bed, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. He'd be damned if he'd sit there cowering on the bed. He was getting out of here.   
  
Beryl sniffed. “I'm not into kids,” he said with a pointed look Sleet's direction before sliding out into the hallway. “Show him the way out, Errol.”   
  
Beryl was gone in the next moment, without so much as a goodbye or a parting insult. Which in itself Sleet could take as an offense.  
  
Errol grinned in Beryl's absence. “This way, honored guest,” he said with an overly embellished gesture.   
  
Sleet stalked past him with a vivid glare. He would have liked to say he could find his own way, but considering the labyrinth of hallways, Sleet couldn't. He had no clue where the hell he was in this building or how to get back out.   
  
And he still hadn't received any answers.   
  
Damn Beryl to the Pits!  
  


* * *


	18. Hourglass - Chapter Six

The sky opened two seconds after Sleet was more or less tossed out of the Thieves Guild.   
  
He had no time to remark on his eviction before the rain started to fall in freezing cold sheets that poured over his head. Sleet scowled, tugging his cloak tighter and pulling up his hood. Not that either helped. By the time he made it back to the inn, he was soaked all the way through.   
  
Sleet shook like a dog as he threw himself through the front door and into the warmth of the main foyer. Few people looked up at his unconventional entrance, which suited his purpose just fine. He felt chilled to the bone and wanted nothing more than to grab a quick dinner and curl into a warm bed, hopefully to fall asleep before Tungsten – whom he probably shared a room with – decided to sleep, too.   
  
Laughter grabbed his attention, like a hook in the back of his clothing. Sleet swung his gaze to the right where a trio of familiar faces huddled around the hearth fire. Only two of them were laughing, the third running his finger over the rim of his mug and staring into dancing orange flames.   
  
Sleet tried to escape, but as always, Tungsten noticed him first. Sleet swore that the mage had a damn Thief Sensor or something because he always seemed to know where Sleet was.   
  
“Sleet!” One hand waved in the air, trying to flag him down.   
  
Sleet shook his head, burrowing deeper into the dripping confines of his cloak.   
  
“Not tonight, I'm afraid,” he answered, voice softer since Tungsten had leapt to his feet, hurrying across the room. One of the twins followed at a more sedate pace.   
  
“By Ishvara, you're soaked to the bone!” Tungsten declared, getting a distinct, mothering gleam to him.   
  
“Thus the reason I'd prefer to retire to my room,” Sleet said, failing to conceal a shiver.   
  
Tungsten shook his head, grabbing Sleet's arm and pulling him toward the blazing hearth. “Our rooms aren't heated that well. You'd best warm up here.”   
  
Sleet's patience, already on a thin thread, cracked. He jerked his arm free. “I don't need you babying me,” he snapped. “I've been taking care of myself this long; I don't need someone else to do it for me.”   
  
He no sooner spoke than felt a twinge of regret for his words, because Tungsten gave him a look that resembled a kicked puppy. And by Hephaestion it was hard to remember that the mage was supposed to be the elder here!   
  
Tungsten released him as though he'd touched a hot stove, stepping away with a hurt look.   
  
“If you insist,” Tungsten said, his emotions so plain on his face he might as well have been wearing a sign. “But we're going to leave early and you getting sick isn't a good idea. Your room is the fifth on the right.”   
  
Directions given, Tungsten then turned and walked away, heading not toward the hearth as Sleet would have expected, but to the stairs. Sleet watched him go and sighed, dragging an icy hand over his damp hair.   
  
He could feel eyes on him and Sleet glanced over his shoulder, finding himself subject to a pair of matching stares.   
  
“What?” Sleet snapped.   
  
“Just curious,” one of the twins asked – Sleet was pretty certain he was Adair, Ashur was the quiet one. “Are you trying to be hated?”  
  
Sleet's brow furrowed. “What the hell are you talking about?”  
  
“I know you do it on purpose,” Adair continued, his smile charming and cold. His brother remained sitting at the hearth, contemplating life's mysteries in his mug or something like that.   
  
“Goad Raven into being angry with you. Dump the mage when it suits your purpose. Be rude to Alaris. You're acting like a child.”   
  
First of all, this brat didn't know Sleet half as well as he thought he did. He was the new guy here and where did he get off accusing Sleet of anything. And second of all-- second of all-- that was just rude.   
  
“I'm a thief,” Sleet corrected. “And--”   
  
“--thieves aren't heroes,” Adair finished for him, shoulders lifting in a dismissive shrug. “Yeah, I've heard it all before. To me, that's just an excuse, Sleet. You're scared and you don't want to be the good guy.”   
  
At last, the boy said something that sounded more like truth. Sleet hadn't claimed to be brave at all. “No, I don't. Glad we agree on something.”   
  
Adair rolled his eyes. “Just what are you afraid of? What bothers you so much about accepting Erebus' help?”   
  
Fighting back a sigh – and the random urge to flee – Sleet frowned. “How about you keep your nose out of my business, huh?”   
  
“You're not going to lose your freedom,” Adair continued as though Sleet hadn't said anything. “You'll still have your life. It's not like he's going to be able to control you or anything. In fact, he can't. Without consent, the bond doesn't work.”   
  
Adair's words didn't have the effect he intended. Because rather than Sleet believing his life would be his own, he applied that knowledge to Frost and whatever Frost was doing. If Adair was right, then everything – the destruction and the murders and the fires and the exploitation – had been by choice. Frost wanted to do the things Balaam was doing.   
  
What was he supposed to think about that?  
  
The simple realization threw Sleet off-kilter.   
  
“I don't like the idea of destiny,” Sleet said, meaning it more for himself and accidentally speaking aloud. “I don't like accepting it's my fate to die for a bunch of strangers. It's not fair.”   
  
“And now you really sound like a child,” Adair said with a snort. He leaned closer, towering over Sleet by a good head. “Suck it up, Sleet. Like it or not, you're a part of this now, and this stubbornness is only going to get you killed. And I'm pretty sure that's the part you don't like the most.”   
  
Sleet stared, speechless, as Adair straightened and dismissed Sleet with a flicker of his fingers. Something sparkled on his hand, heavy and obviously made of metal, capturing Sleet's thief's senses before the twin was gone.   
  
Sleet's eyes narrowed. Even if Adair was right, that gave him no justification for all but attacking Sleet like that.   
  
“He does that to me, too.”   
  
Sleet nearly jumped out of his skin. He hadn't even heard Ashur approach, the boy creeping across the floor as though he had no presence whatsoever.   
  
“Does what?” Sleet asked, though he was ready to wash his hands of both twins and retreat to the cold, solitude of his room.   
  
He was still dripping onto the floor, and doubted the proprietor of the inn would appreciate that.   
  
Ashur shrugged, his eyes refusing to hold Sleet's gaze. “Tells me what's in my best interest. Thinks he knows everything.”  
  
“Big brothers tend to be like that,” Sleet said.   
  
He thought of his own brothers – Gulliver and Raymond – and how they had always made his life difficult. It had never helped that they were several years older than him, and that their mother had always doted on Sleet as her youngest and the one who should have been a girl.   
  
“Except that he's actually younger than me,” Ashur said, folding his arms over his chest, shoulders hunching as though he were trying to make himself smaller. “But you wouldn't know it, huh?”   
  
Sleet's brow lifted. “He... uh... well, that throws all my theories out of the window.”   
  
Ashur shook his head. “He's been taking care of me since our parents died. It's stifling.”   
  
Sleet fidgeted, tugging at the ties to his tunic. He was growing uncomfortable with this little emotional one on one. He didn't think he was qualified to be Ashur's confidante. Ashur would be better off seeking Tungsten, the bleeding heart that he was.   
  
“I can see how that would be annoying,” Sleet said, and scratched at his chin. “But he's your brother. They're sorta there to make your life a living hell.”   
  
Gulliver and Raymond were a lot like that. He loved his brothers – though Sleet wouldn't say those words aloud – but quite frequently, he didn't like them that much.   
  
Ashur snorted, his fingers tightening over his arms. “Adair just thinks he knows what's best for everyone. Even though we don't know you that well, he thinks it's his right to question you.”   
  
Sleet bit his tongue on an answer, not wanting to admit that maybe, some of what Adair said made sense. A teenager of all things. He doubted, however, that Ashur wanted to hear that.  
  
“Ashur!”  
  
Even Sleet's head whipped around at the commanding tone to that voice, both he and Ashur turning to find Adair staring down at them. One of his hands was curled around the railing of the stairs.  
  
“What?” Ashur asked, in a tone much like a child would take with a scolding parent – belligerent.   
  
“It's late. We should head upstairs,” Adair said, his eyes flicking to Sleet before returning to his brother.   
  
Ashur sighed, resigned and took a step, moving around Sleet. He had one foot on the bottom step before he paused, his head cocking to the side. A strange expression, one Sleet couldn't interpret, flickered across Ashur's face. He stepped back down to the floor.   
  
“You go,” Ashur said. “I'm not tired yet.”   
  
Adair frowned. “If you don't sleep now, you know you'll just be irritable in the morning.”   
  
Sleet raised an eyebrow.   
  
Did Adair think he was Ashur's mother or something? That was ridiculous. Sleet knew they were teenagers but neither of them were children. They should have been able to take care of themselves.   
  
Sleet watched – a spectator rather than participant – as Ashur bristled. “I think I know my own limits, Adair.”   
  
Adair took another step down. “I'm aware of that,” he said. “But you have a bad habit of not paying attention to yourself. Mama told me--”   
  
“I know what Mama said,” Ashur snapped, hands balling into fists. “I don't need you throwing it in my face as another excuse!” His eyes blazed with fire, the frustrations of years upon years of coddling.  
  
“Excuse for what, Ashur?” Adair demanded, taking another step down.   
  
Ashur seemed several seconds closer to bolting until he suddenly grew a back bone, standing straight like a sprouting tree. “For treating me like I'm five years old! I'm not a kid and I'm not someone you need to protect.”   
  
“If you didn't persistently need protection, then I wouldn't have to step in every time,” Adair retorted, rolling his eyes. “Now come on. You're acting like the child you claim you aren't.”   
  
Sleet, feeling uncomfortable, wanted to leave but worried the simple act of twitching might gather either of their attention. But then, they did seem pretty fixated on duking it out here and now.   
  
“No,” Ashur hissed, eyes darkened to an angry slate. “I won't. You do your happy little act here. I'm leaving.”   
  
Ashur whirled on a heel and stalked toward the front door. Vicious movements jerked his cloak tighter around his body as he pulled his hood over his head.   
  
“Ashur!” Adair yelled as he descended the last two steps. “Ashur, get back here!”  
  
The door slammed shut behind Ashur.   
  
Sleet shook his head as Adair drew to a halt beside him, his expression a convoluted mess of hurt and anger and worry.   
  
“He needs space,” Sleet said, though he ought to know better then sticking his nose into their business. “If you go after him now, he'll only get angrier.”   
  
“Great. Advice from the coward. Just what I needed.” Adair sneered. “Worry about your own damn problems, thief.” He huffed and stomped toward the bar, entire body rigid with anger.   
  
Sleet sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. Yep. He shouldn't have gotten involved. To his room it was.   
  
Sleet finally climbed the stairs, more than ready to drop into his bed and not rise until sometime after noon tomorrow.   
  
_You know he's right._  
  
He nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden reappearance of his parasite. “Holy... Warn somebody when you're going to do that!”   
  
_And how do you propose I do that without speaking to you?_  
  
Oh, right. Sleet's cheeks heated.   
  
“Just... don't be so sudden next time,” he said, and clamped his mouth shut as he passed by a maid who was staring. _'I take it your council's over?'  
  
More or less. We still have much to discuss but for now, we have adjourned.   
  
'That's... good. I guess,'_ Sleet said. _'Any important information to pass on?'  
  
Nothing that would serve your purposes.   
  
'Now what the hell is that supposed to mean?'_ Sleet demanded, jabbing his key into the lock and pushing into his room.   
  
Erebus chuckled at him, voice growing faint as he slipped into the furthest recesses of Sleet's mind. _I'll let you know when and if it's time. Good night, Sleet._  
  
He didn't dignify that with an answer.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
Sleet woke with a half-muffled shout, his body arching upward in pleasure as a mouth covered his, quieting his sounds. Eyes snapping open, Sleet shifted beneath a warm body, his cock straining within the confines of his leggings.   
  
He couldn't move his hands. Someone had pinned them above his head, wrists trapped in a strong grip. Someone's other hand had crept under his tunic, fingers bare and chilled as they walked up Sleet's abdomen, flicking his nipples.   
  
Sleet gasped, body torn between arousal, fear, and disgust.   
  
Who?   
  
There was no light, nothing to identify his attacker. Until Sleet inhaled and an all-too-familiar scent washed over him.   
  
Frost.   
  
The mouth left Sleet's lips, breathing heavily over his jaw before moving to nibble at Sleet's bare throat. He panted, head tossed back to encourage the touch even as something felt wrong. Something that he couldn't quite place.  
  
“Why are you here again, Frost?” Sleet forced himself to ask, words unsteady and stuttered.   
  
“Frost?” A dark chuckle slithered into the room. “Not quite, my pet.”   
  
Sleet stiffened.   
  
The single lantern in the room suddenly caught aflame, no doubt by magic. The pale illumination was enough to give Sleet full view of the man atop him, grinding a knee against Sleet's clothed erection.   
  
It was Frost, in every vague sense of the name. He looked like Frost, sounded like him, smelled like him, but behind those brown eyes was someone else. Someone not-Frost. And not sane either.   
  
_Balaam._  
  
A shiver crawled down Sleet's spine and he recoiled. “I thought you wanted to kill me,” Sleet said, tugging in vain on the fingers trapping his wrists.   
  
“I do,” Balaam – because Sleet could never think of that parasite as anything else even if he did inhabit Frost's body – breathed, his breath a rush of warm air across Sleet's throat. “But my human doesn't desire it, so I can't.”   
  
“Small favor,” Sleet said and sucked in a sharp breath as Balaam's teeth tugged on his lobe, tongue snaking out to slide around Sleet's ear.   
  
“But perhaps I can see the allure,” Balaam said, his fingers flicking across Sleet's nipple before he pulled Sleet's tunic all the way up, baring his chest to the chilly air.   
  
Sleet tried to twist away, but was thoroughly pinned by Balaam's weight. “Bastard.”   
  
Balaam looked at him, head cocked to the side, something odd glinting in his expression. His not-Frost expression.   
  
“Those eyes,” the deity murmured, staring at Sleet with unblinking focus. “Amethyst in fire, burning, blazing. Oh yes, I can see the allure.” He purred, tongue dragging over his lips.   
  
Sleet's skin crawled, disgust washing over him in a cold flood. “Get off me!” he hissed, trying to twist his hips away.   
  
“But is this not the body you want?” Balaam asked, grinding down against Sleet, and to his horror, Sleet reacted, his cock throbbing in mortifying surrender.   
  
Balaam lowered his mouth, tongue sliding over Sleet's lips. “It's familiar, isn't it?”   
  
“You're not him,” Sleet spat.   
  
“Minor detail,” Balaam said. “You don't look anything like him. But your eyes are the same.”   
  
Sleet's innards churned and he pressed himself backward, against the mattress, if only to put as much space between his body and Frost's Balaam-infested one.   
  
His horror increased when Balaam leaned down, pressing his lips to Sleet's eyes, kissing first one and then the other. Sleet froze, fearing that if he so much as twitched, Balaam would do something unthinkable. Like eat them.   
  
But no. Balaam drew back, his mouth twisted into an odd smile that was neither humored nor fond. His lips parted, warm exhales ghosting over Sleet's face, as Balaam's hand skated down Sleet's abdomen, palm flattening against the strings on Sleet's pants.   
  
Sleet sucked in a breath, trying to push himself against the mattress. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to escape from Balaam's unwelcome advance.   
  
“Why do you resist, my pet?” Balaam purred, nuzzling into the sensitive skin just below Sleet's ear, the touch of his tongue making Sleet shiver with a mixture of horror and arousal. “Your body certainly recognizes my touch.”   
  
Sleet drew his lip into his mouth, biting down on it. His body didn't seem to mind that Balaam was not Frost, his cock straining at the confines of his pants. He was thrumming with need, a restless fire coiling in his belly.   
  
Balaam's fingers plucked at Sleet's ties, undoing the lacing and drawing Sleet's heated arousal free. The moment his cock hit the cool air, and a hand stroked him, Sleet couldn't hide the groan that vibrated throughout his entire body. His hips shifted, a drop of pearly fluid seeping from the tip of his member.   
  
“An interesting reaction,” Balaam hummed thoughtfully, drawing back from Sleet's neck to peer into the thief's face, as though watching something particularly fascinating. His fingers began a lazy rhythm, alternately squeezing Sleet's cock as he stroked him.   
  
The touch was both familiar and alien, Balaam touching him as though deciding how the whole process worked, twisting his grip or squeezing. Stroking faster and slower, trying to see what caused the most reaction from the thief. Sleet sucked in a breath, trying to ignore the pleasure slicing through his veins, but it was impossible. His mind knew that this wasn't Frost, but his body couldn't remember it.   
  
He panted, hips surging upward. “You bastard. Why are you doing this?”   
  
“I'm curious,” Balaam said, dark eyes gleaming in the lantern light. “What about you has my human so... obsessed?”   
  
“I don't think you know Frost as well as you think you do,” Sleet retorted, head falling back against the mattress as the coil in his gut turned into a raging fire.  
  
“Perhaps,” Balaam conceded, increasing the pace of his fingers, thumb swiping over the tip and smearing Sleet's precome over the leaking head.   
  
Sleet's body twisted under Balaam's helplessly, his breath coming in sharper pants now, no longer feeling the cold. Instead, a heat flushed his body, his feet kicking out as he fought himself – ignore the pleasure, feel the pleasure, he didn't know which was worse. And all the while Balaam watched him, as though he were an experiment and Balaam the scientist.   
  
And then, the fingers on Sleet's cock changed ever-so-slightly, the touch taking on a specific rhythm that shot to all corners of Sleet's body. It was familiar, no longer testing and unskilled. He looked at the body above him, saw Frost, knew it was Balaam, but there was an edge of his lover in there somewhere, too. Something in the curl of Balaam's mouth, in the way he dragged his tongue over his lips.   
  
Sleet's eyes shuttered closed, his fingers curling into his fists, and he stopped fighting back the pleasure that raced through his body. What was the point? He obviously enjoyed it in some way, and it was clear Balaam didn't mean to kill him. Yet.   
  
Balaam made a noise of approval in his throat. “No longer fighting me? A pity.”   
  
Ignoring him, Sleet gnawed on his lower lip, trying to control his vocal reactions. His hips were a restless churn now, arching up into each stroke, body trembling on the cusp of release. He could feel Balaam's stare, even with his eyes closed, but if Sleet pretended enough, he could imagine it were Frost here instead.   
  
That deep voice purring into his ear. Those glove-smooth fingers stroking over his cock, teasing and pushing him higher. Frost's tongue sliding into his mouth, always tasting of a myriad of things, anise and smoke and coffee. Fingers sliding into Sleet's hair, tugging. A hand smacking against Sleet's buttocks, turning them a fire red. A growled command to let go.   
  
With a muffled groan, Sleet's head snapped backward and he arched his hips, spilling over the fingers that encircled his cock. His body twitched as tremors of pleasure radiated through him, leaving him a panting, shuddering mess.   
  
Sleet collapsed against the mattress, feeling spent and tired, as though he'd just finished fighting some battle rather than getting jacked off by his possessed maybe-lover.   
  
The fingers left his cock and Sleet peeled his eyes open, watching as Balaam eyed his release with scholarly interest. He then frowned, and wiped his hand on the mattress as though Sleet had covered him in acid or something similar. And then he turned his glittering gaze on Sleet himself.   
  
“My turn, pet,” Balaam said with a smirk, moving between Sleet's legs with the aura of a stalking panther. The bulge in his trousers was highly evident. “How shall I taste you?”   
  
A myriad of emotions fluttered through Sleet, and he wasn't sure which he should focus on. Lingering pleasure? Fury? Growing disgust?   
  
Balaam leaned forward, his mouth covering Sleet's, tongue sliding briefly between. “Your lips perhaps?” he murmured after the brief kiss. “I don't think I trust you enough to free your hands.” Balaam chuckled, sitting back on his heels as his hand skated down, tugging Sleet's pants further and slipping a hand between Sleet's legs. “Or here perhaps?” he wondered aloud, his palm cupping Sleet's softened erection but his fingers brushing across Sleet's puckered muscle.   
  
Sleet's fingers hurt, but that didn't stop him from clenching them tighter. He fixed Balaam with the firmest glare he had in his arsenal, biting words sounding trite in the face of the emotion he had finally decided upon – absolute fury.   
  
“That looks suits you so well, pet,” Balaam purred, intent in his movements, until he suddenly stopped, pulling back with a disgruntled expression. “My, someone is feeling a bit possessive.”   
  
Sleet blinked. “... What?”   
  
Shrugging, Balaam withdrew his hand. “Interesting that he won't allow me this. Oh well, I shall break him yet.” He smirked and patted Sleet's cheek. “We shall meet again.”   
  
The bastard released Sleet's hands finally, but when the thief tried to surge upward, to form some kind of attack, he found his body unable to move. His hands remained pinned to the bed by some invisible shackle that had also wrapped around his midsection.   
  
“Dammit, let me go!” Sleet growled, resisting the urge to howl. He didn't want to drag the others in here. Not even he was so pathetic to wish to be saved.   
  
“It's a pity I can't stay,” Balaam said, ignoring Sleet and sliding off the bed. One hand dragged through his hair, brushing it back from his face. “But I do have other business to attend. You know, cities to destroy and humans to kill.” His free hand gestured vaguely. “Don't worry, that binding spell will fade in about ten minutes – five if you use magic.”  
  
Sleet growled, tugging but getting nowhere. “You know that I can't!”  
  
The deity said nothing, merely gave Sleet a flippant wave as streams of darkness curled up from the floor, wrapping Balaam in a blanket of black. The smirk twisting Balaam's lips mocked Sleet for the extent of the minute it took for him to vanish, leaving Sleet's room and taking the light of the lantern with him.   
  
In darkness again, Sleet's eyes slowly adjusted as he stared helplessly, frustrated and ill with himself.   
  
“Damn it.”  
  
 _Ask me for help, Sleet. That's all it takes._  
  
Sleet jerked, the voice slowly flowing into his thoughts surprising him as it always did. To his horror, he felt his cheeks blush. “Please tell me that you just woke up or something.”  
  
There was a moment's pause and Sleet had the impression of Erebus shifting uneasily. _How I wish that were true,_ the deity replied. _Unfortunately, I bore witness to Balaam's... fascination._ He sighed. _I did not know he had fallen so far into madness._  
  
Sleet snorted, chilly air creeping over his body which was slowly losing the heated flush from his release. “Sure, that's what they're calling it these days. Madness.” He kicked his feet out, hitting the footboard and making the bed rattle. “What's the deal with my eyes, Erebus? That was fucking creepy.”   
  
_I don't know_ , Erebus answered without hesitation. _Fa-- Balaam lost himself to his ambitions long ago. Perhaps the only one who can guess his thoughts is Baal, but even then..._   
  
“What?”   
  
_It is not my story to tell_ , Erebus said, his voice thick with regret and something else. _Perhaps when you meet him, he will be willing to share his side of it._  
  
Sleet frowned. All of this secrecy was more than irritating.   
  
He thought to ask more when the invisible pressure on his wrists vanished. Sleet bolted upward, questions forgotten, just to prove to himself that he was no longer trapped, and nearly vaulted himself off the bed. He winced, fingers rubbed over his sore wrists.   
  
_Sleet._   
  
“What?” Sleet growled, tucking himself back into his leggings and ignoring the mess spattered over the fabric. He doubted this cheap inn had a cleaning facility.   
  
_You have to warn them. The others don't know Balaam is here,_ Erebus said. _You know what he's after._  
  
Sleet stilled. “You're right,” he said, leaping to his feet with an urgency that surprised himself.   
  
All he could think about was more dead bodies, more burning buildings, watching another person killed by Balaam's madness. The guilt that knocked on his heart was heavy enough already.   
  
Sleet snatched up his cloak, still damp but better than nothing, and slammed his feet into his bones. He grabbed his pouches and dagger from the table and threw open the door, stepping into the dark, frigid hallway. His every sense strained to catch the noise of explosions or screaming. Silence greeted him.   
  
Balaam hadn't attacked. Yet.   
  
“Which room is it?” Sleet asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He knew that the others were somewhere on this floor, but that didn't help him much. Not when he could clearly see at least ten doors, and a hallway that split to the left and the right at the far end, no doubt leading to more rooms.   
  
Erebus chuckled. _Alaris is in the third room to your left. And the others--_  
  
Sleet shook his head, cutting off Erebus' explanation as he strode across the corridor. “Alaris first. We'll worry about the others later.”   
  
Alaris hadn't bothered to lock her door so Sleet threw it open, hard enough that it banged against the wall behind it.   
  
“Alaris!” he barked, the priestess bolting upright from her sleep, long hair in a careful braid with several strands of hair sticking out of it. “Balaam is here.”   
  
It took several seconds for the information to filter into her sleep-fogged mind, and Alaris tilted her head to the side, a clear sign that she was conversing with Hephaestion. She frowned, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and slipping her feet into fur-lined slippers.   
  
“How do you know?” Alaris demanded, instantly all business despite wearing her nightclothes. And then she paused, peering at Sleet. “Wait. Never mind. Get the others.”   
  
Any other time, her bossiness would have irritated him. Now, it was warranted. Sleet couldn't explain it, but there was an urgency perched on his shoulders and he scrambled to obey it.   
  
_Across the hall_ , Erebus supplied without prompting on Sleet's part. Nice of him to be helpful every once in a while.   
  
Tungsten had locked his door, not that such a thing could stop Sleet. He knew how Tungsten slept. Simple knocking would do little good. Out popped his handy lock-picking tool – a gift from Frost not long after they met in fact – and within moments, the door popped open.   
  
The mage had fallen asleep with his lantern lit, though the fuel was nearly gone, leaving the glow dim and ineffectual. Yet, it was enough for Sleet to see Tungsten sprawled across his bed, half-under the covers, snoring away.   
  
Sleet didn't waste any time. He strode right up to the mage and pinched him on a patch of bare arm. Tungsten flailed, arms striking out, and Sleet danced backward to avoid getting beaned in the face.   
  
Tungsten shouted something unintelligible, his eyes bouncing around the room before settling on the shadow of the thief. “Sleet-san? Why did you...?” He paused, his eyes shifting away. “Ah, I see.”   
  
“We probably don't have much time,” Sleet said, turning back to the door. He still had to wake Raven and find the twins, too.   
  
Behind him, Tungsten made some wordless noise of agreement, cloth rustling as he readied himself. Slow to move as always, but he would be ready when the time came.   
  
Now for the one-eyed nuisance. Or, well, Sleet could save him for Alaris. Maybe the Wonder Twins instead. Yeah, definitely get them first. They were less likely to try and take his head off with a sword.   
  
_To your left._  
  
“You're surprisingly compliant tonight,” Sleet said.   
  
A low chuckle echoed in the back of his skull. _I could say the same thing for you, Sleet. Or haven't you noticed how helpful you are being?_  
  
Sleet blinked, even as he raised his fist to the door. Before he could knock, the door slid open revealing Adair standing in the entry, looking as if he hadn't slept at all yet. Dark circles ringed his blue eyes.   
  
“Ashur hasn't come back yet,” the twin said before Sleet could get a word out.   
  
And the bad feeling on Sleet's shoulders dropped down between his ribs.   
  
Fantastic.   
  


* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback and constructive criticism are always welcome. I appreciate any comment that helps me grow as a writer. I also self-edit and I am never offended if you point out a grammatical error. :)


	19. Hourglass - Chapter Seven

Ashur snorted, nose running in a very unattractive fashion. He swept his hand down his face, but it did little to stave off the rain. It was freezing out here and his body sought to remind him of that fact, his layers of clothing not nearly enough against the soaking fall of water. Of course, the storm above had nothing on the storm raging across his heart, surging out through his feet as each step was a stomp into mud, splashing dirty water across his boots and hem.   
  
Ashur was used to Adair acting motherly. It had been that way since Mama died and Papa followed not long after. Bad luck seemed to follow their family in droves though Adair always claimed there was no such thing as bad luck, just circumstance and what people made of it. Ashur, however, believed differently. Their family was cursed and this newest pestilence – war and parasites infesting them – was only another facet of that.   
  
_I take offense to that, sparklet._  
  
Ashur startled, and closed his eyes. _'I apologize. But you have to admit, this gift was neither requested nor wanted.'  
  
And now you sound like the thief your brother finds so repulsive._  
  
He tugged his hood closer around his face, ducking between two buildings in an attempt to flee somewhere. Ashur didn't particularly care so long as it was beyond the stifling presence of Adair, the younger brother who thought to step into the role of their parents. Ashur wasn't helpless and he was tired of Adair thinking him to be, even if Ashur had given ample reason before to prove otherwise.   
  
He had only to remember the scar on Adair's neck for proof of that.   
  
Ashur sighed. _'It was unexpected. But I do not intend to deny it as Sleet has. In fact, I would be honored if you could teach me how to fight.'_  
  
Fafnir made a thoughtful noise. _A considerable task, sparklet. But I do believe I am up for the challenge._  
  
He would have bristled, if the truth weren't so obvious. Adair was the physical one, not he. Ashur was the scientist, the bookworm, the one who spent most of the time in schooling and patiently attempted to pass his knowledge onto Adair, the mental brick. Ashur hadn't so much as lifted a sword in his entire life.   
  
_I do not think a sword would fit you anyway. A staff perhaps._ Fafnir gave the impression of one tapping his fingers against a solid object. _A quarterstaff? I don't think you have the upper body strength for a longbow, though you certainly have the height._  
  
“You could always teach me magic,” Ashur suggested, speaking aloud now that they were creeping unpopulated streets, away from the curious eyes of the masses. Not that there were many out with the drenching rain.   
  
Ashur didn't mind the rain so much. He preferred it to snow and ice, and definitely more than the heat of a blazing midafternoon sun. He was tempted to push back his hood were it not for the risk of catching cold and proving Adair's point.   
  
_I will teach you magic of your own, the abilities that our connection will allow you to harness_ , Fafnir explained with the patience of one long used to requiring it.   
  
Nodding, Ashur accepted that. It would at least help him get stronger. Perhaps slip out from beneath Adair's protective umbrella. He was tired of being powerless and pathetic, tired of requiring someone to look after him. Even if he wasn't too thrilled with risking his life.   
  
Grey-blue eyes glanced around as Ashur realized he had somehow gotten himself completely lost. He had no idea where he was in Nename. Obviously a residential area due to the prevalence of homes, but otherwise, he had no idea. Somewhere to the west? Oh well. He would find the main road soon enough.   
  
Which reminded him...  
  
“Would you tell me now?”   
  
Fafnir gave the impression of one cocking his head to the side. _Tell you what, sparklet?_   
  
“What Balaam is after. Why we're fighting him.” Ashur lifted a hand, letting the rain fall across his palm, cold and slushy. “And why you don't wish to speak of him.”  
  
Ashur stepped out into a main road, finally recognizing his position. Not far from the home he shared with Adair in fact. He supposed he could return there for a while, if only to cool down. Let Adair fret a while longer.   
  
_You should be kinder to your brother. He means the best for you,_ Fafnir said, his tone carrying a hint of wistfulness.   
  
Slipping down the nearest alley, one narrowly placed between his favorite baker and a low-rate cobbler, Ashur resisted the urge to snort. “I didn't say I hated him. I'm just not happy with him right now.”   
  
Fafnir was silent for a moment before something rustled, as though he were shifting around in the back of Ashur's mind, making room for himself. _Do you really want to know about Balaam, sparklet? The truth may be more than you are willing to bear._  
  
Ashur was curious, and he nodded, watching as his breath puffed out in front of his face. It was cold enough that the rain could turn to snow at any moment. The clouding of the dark sky above him was all the proof he needed.   
  
_Very well._ Fafnir paused, as though gearing himself up for a difficult conversation. _We demi-deities are not unlike humans. We have families. Brothers. Sisters. Parents. Balaam may seem like an errant god to you, sparklet, but to us, he is someone's precious blood._  
  
Ashur's eyes widened. The deities were familial? That was not something he had expected. He had always believed that they were apart from one another. At least, that was what all the myths, legend, folklore, and mythology claimed. That they had been born from respective elements, or given life by Aesir himself. The stories never mentioned anything of the deities being related.   
  
A strange sensation crept up Ashur's back, like a prickle. His brow furrowed, and he paused, peering into the damp dark behind him. There was nothing to be seen. At least, not by his eyes.   
  
He was probably just paranoid. “Like who?” Ashur asked.  
  
Instead of an answer, he received silence. His anima was hesitating again. Was Balaam someone directly special to him as well? Father? Brother? Perhaps that explained his reluctance.   
  
“Fafnir?”   
  
The deity of fire sighed. _He is Erebus' father._  
  
Erebus. Sleet's anima. “Oh,” Ashur murmured in understanding, though he doubted Sleet was even aware of it. Sleet didn't seem like he was making an effort to connect with his anima. “That... well, that sucks.”   
  
_Yes. And Balaam has already killed Sybaris, his mother,_ Fafnir continued, giving the impression of a wince. Sorrow colored his tone.   
  
His own mother? Ashur couldn't imagine such a thing. “I can see why you don't want to talk about this.”   
  
_Balaam's betrayal of his own kind is a sore topic. And to be honest, there are few who understand his reasons._  
  
Something skittered behind him and Ashur started, whirling around with enough force that he almost lost his balance. His heart picked up a faster rhythm. “I didn't imagine that,” Ashur said, looking for confirmation. “I didn't.”   
  
Fafnir materialized beside him, one hand landing on his shoulder. “No, you didn't. There's something there.”   
  
“You can't tell what it is?”   
  
“The fact that I can't is all the warning we need,” Fafnir said, squeezing. Brown eyes narrowed, peering into the rainy, foggy night. “I suggest we move quickly.”   
  
“We could fight,” he proposed, despite the shaking in his fingers.  
  
“You're not ready yet,” Fafnir said, tapping Ashur's shoulder and turning away. “And I've the feeling that we alone are no match for Balaam.”   
  
_“Balaam?”_ Ashur repeated, and no, he did not squeak, thank you very much.   
  
His anima did not reply, instead breaking into a light jog and prompting Ashur to imitate him, refusing to admit to himself that his legs threatened to turn to jelly. He could feel it now, the sensation of something – someone – dogging his steps. Ashur bit back a yelp, and burst into a run, shoving past Fafnir, his boots slapping against the muddy ground.   
  
He glanced back once, saw nothing, but couldn't erase the feeling. The shadows moved, they must have. His breath blew out in front of him in frantic gray puffs. He put on another burst of speed, hearing Fafnir behind him.   
  
Ashur nearly whimpered, his brother's name on his lips but going no further, instead echoing over and over in his mind.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
Blue-grey eyes snapped open. “Ashur...”   
  
“Where is he?” Raven demanded, his words all but a growl as they crowded around the long-haired twin. Thick fingers grasped his sword as though aching for a battle to fight. But the still and silence of the town didn't bear witness to an attack of any kind. It was unsettling.   
  
Adair flicked a gaze to the right, where the heart of the city grew in cluttered clumps of buildings and thin alleys. “That way.”   
  
“How do you know?” Tungsten demanded. He was bundled from head to toe against the cold, only his nose and green eyes visible above the scarf wound about his throat and face.   
  
“It's a twin thing,” Adair answered with a lazy grin.   
  
Sleet, however, was not so certain things would be so easy. Just standing outside the Bull’s Run, Sleet's senses crawled. Like a dozen spiders dancing over his skin. There was a restless urge to flee, as though escaping something terrible. Sleet couldn't explain that either.   
  
“Something's coming,” he said, more to himself than anyone else, but Alaris heard him anyway.   
  
She looked troubled, her face pinched and her brow furrowed. Having been pulled out of bed like the rest of them, her outfit was hastily slapped together, some lines from her pillow still creased into her face.  
  
“I know,” Alaris agreed, dragging her hand through her hair and twisting it into something more suited for battle. “We have to find Ashur quickly.”   
  
“We'll split up,” Raven rumbled, looking no better than the rest of them, his battle leather pulled over his bare skin. “Cover more ground that way.”   
  
Tungsten shifted. “Why should we do that? Adair can sense him.”   
  
“Bait,” Sleet muttered, his skin crawling. “If Balaam hasn't found Ashur yet then the rest of us can serve as bait.” He didn't much like the idea of it.   
  
“Precisely.” Alaris bit back a visible yawn.   
  
“Bait,” Tungsten repeated, sounding faint. He looked ill, his skin pale and lips bloodless. “I don't think I like the sound of that.”   
  
Finally, something Sleet and Tungsten could agree on. They were, in essence, sacrificing themselves for the sake of one animus. But Adair looked ready to charge into the unknown, despite the drenching rain, his eyes skittering back and forth in worry. Even if they didn't help, it was obvious Adair would look for his twin on his own, and that would mean losing another animus. Alaris didn't have that many to spare.   
  
“Tungsten, go with Adair,” Alaris ordered, drawing up straight as she took over her leading role. “Raven, you're with me. Sleet--”   
  
“I'll go this way,” Sleet said, knowing he'd have to join either party and having little interest in both.   
  
He could do better on his own. None of these people knew anything about sneaking around, keeping to the shadows, walking with silence. Besides, there was another reason Sleet wanted to go off on his own, and it wasn't to look for Ashur.   
  
Sleet didn't wait for Alaris' agreement, he stepped out from under the awning of the Bull’s Run and vanished into the hazy, drenching night. He couldn't see the moon for all the clouds, the chill attacking his body and instantly him shiver. His fingers were cold, moving slowly in his gloves and Sleet palmed his dagger, unable to shake the sensation of dread that dragged down his spine.   
  
_Do you even know where you're going?_  
  
“Not a damn clue,” Sleet responded with a cheer that he didn't feel, peering into the abandoned streets. “But I've got a feeling...”   
  
_A feeling of what?_   
  
Sleet dragged his teeth over his bottom lip. ' _Frost's here.'_  
  
 _We've established that already,_ Erebus said. _Or have you forgotten what happened in your room?_  
  
Shaking his head, the thief slid into the darkness, the sensation of magic so strong in the air he thought he could reach out and touch it. He felt like there was a string tugging him in one specific direction, calling to him.   
  
“No, I mean, Frost. Not Balaam in Frost's skin,” Sleet clarified, unable to explain his reasoning.   
  
_Sleet... why do you chase after him? If Frost was nothing more than a casual partner, why is it so important that you understand what he's doing?_  
  
It was something Sleet had asked himself before. Why didn't he just turn his back on this whole thing, abandon Frost to his attempt at world domination hand-in-hand with a god gone mad? Why was he still chasing after Frost?   
  
“He used me,” Sleet said, trying to put the pieces of his rationale for his own benefit, as well as Erebus’. “I want to know why, other than the obvious.”   
  
Frustration ate away at him. Why did he care so much? Why did he burn to know what drove Frost?   
  
_Perhaps your feelings were not as casual as you think_ , a small and dangerous piece of Sleet whispered, one that had nothing to do with Erebus or himself.   
  
Sleet shook his head, trying to chase away the thoughts. Frost was good in bed – great if Sleet were being honest with himself. But to say that there were deeper feelings seemed absurd. Nothing tied them together but sex. Well, that and a fondness for thievery. It would be better for Sleet to chalk his desires up to curiosity.   
  
Besides, he was a part of this mess whether he liked it or not. Though he wouldn’t ever admit aloud, and especially not to Alaris, they were right. A god had decided to inhabit Sleet’s skull and he had no choice in the matter. All he could decide was what to do with that curse. If finding Frost was all the drive he needed, then Sleet would cling to that.   
  
His lips firmed. “I’m going to find him because I want to know what’s so damned valuable he’ll do anything to get it.”   
  
_Greed does not explain everything, Sleet. But I’ll let you have that excuse._   
  
“Thanks ever so much for you permission,” Sleet replied and suddenly drew to a halt, feeling as if something was tugging on his insides.   
  
He stood in the middle of a deserted street, the smell of rain growing stronger and stronger in the air. Sleet turned around, searching the road in either direction, and the dark faces of the buildings that lined the street. Nothing stirred. There was nothing but silence, darkness, and the ferocious pounding of Sleet’s heart.   
  
The sky rumbled and lightning flashed, illuminating the roll of the clouds. Sleet felt a shiver creep up his spine. Was it fear or was it dread? Was it excitement? He didn’t know. His pulse felt like a slow, throbbing beat through his body.   
  
His eyes found an alleyway, hidden by the shadows of a building, no light piercing the dark. And he knew, without knowing why, that it was the direction he needed to take. Frost was that way.   
  
Sleet turned, the invisible string pulling on his insides giving a sharp tug of compulsion. Hurry, hurry the feeling seemed to say. Sleet swallowed thickly, tongue dragging over his lips.   
  
_I’m not so sure this is a good idea,_ Erebus said.  
  
Sleet shook his head, sliding into a jog as he approached the dark alley. He couldn’t see through to the other side. He wasn’t even sure what courage drove him. This was probably the most foolish thing he had done, desperately seeking the biggest threat to his existence. He was being an idiot.   
  
“Actually, I’m pretty sure it’s a bad idea myself,” Sleet murmured, stepping into the eerily cold corridor as the rain fell heavier, huge, heavy droplets that splashed against the ground and rooftops. “But I’m going to do it anyway.”   
  
Erebus was silent for a long, worrisome moment. _I sure hope you know what you’re doing._  
  
Fingers clasped around a dagger, Sleet sucked in a breath. “So do I.”   
  


o0o0o

  
  
“Nrgh!”   
  
All of Ashur's breath escaped in a whoosh as his back slammed into a brick wall. His head knocked against the solid stone, making his thoughts spin. His entire body felt battered and bruised, but those were dim sensations compared to the terror that flooded through his insides, turning them to ice.   
  
His palms fell against the brick, bracing himself for the chance to push off and run, but something dropped to the ground in front of him. Terror froze Ashur in place and he stared, heart thumping madly in his chest.   
  
It was dark outside, darker thanks to the storm, but frequent flashes of lightning granted him enough light to see. And once he had, Ashur immediately wished he hadn’t.   
  
The monster before him looked to be crafted from shadow. It seemed to have no substance and moved with a lazy grace, swaying from side to side. Its eyes – two of them – were like sapphires, both beautiful and frightening.   
  
The creature hissed and pounced and Ashur was unable to stop his cry of pain as claws dug into his shoulders, drawing blood. A mouth parted in that sea of black, revealing pale white fangs that dripped with saliva. Or possibly poison. Ashur couldn’t guess which. The creature’s warm breath flooded Ashur’s face, stinking of sulphur and rotten cherries.   
  
Ashur wanted to pretend that he wasn’t afraid. That he was stronger than his terror and he was every inch the warrior the anima and the world needed him to be. But that pretense would be a lie and he shook, pain jabbing him like knives as claws dug deeper and deeper into his flesh, that creature swaying in front of him as though eager to take bites of Ashur’s flesh.   
  
His fear worsened when he caught sight of Fafnir, careening out of the darkness and toward Ashur, only to slam back first against the wall to Ashur’s right. He collapsed like a sack of potatoes, his limbs slack. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, the smell of copper thick in the air, even as flashes of light made the scarlet gleam with flecks of gold.   
  
“Fafnir!”   
  
Ashur wasn’t even sure where he found the breath to call for his anima. But Fafnir didn’t stir. Didn’t flinch or move. Terror clawed its way into Ashur’s throat, making it difficult for him to breathe. He hated, more than anything, that he was so weak.   
  
“He fell easier than I expected. Your bond must be new.”   
  
The voice slithered into the night with the same oily sensation that the shadow monster gave Ashur. It was a voice all too human, yet it still managed to fill Ashur with fear.   
  
“Then again, Fafnir is unused to the burden of a human bond.”   
  
Ashur twitched, struggling to peer through the dark. Footsteps announced the approach of another being, thick boots stepping lightly across the muddy ground.   
  
Someone came into view, his face illuminated by frequent flashes of lightning. He was human, young in appearance, dressed no different than any stranger Ashur might have passed in the street. He looked normal, certainly nothing distinctive about him. But the power that radiated from his body couldn’t be ignored. Ashur felt it pulsing through the air as a tangible force, pressing against his chest like a physical weight.   
  
“I’ve been looking for you,” the stranger said as he approached Ashur, stopping somewhere between where Ashur was pinned and Fafnir lay unconscious. One hand lifted, stroking the shadow creature above the gem-like eyes as though the beast had physical form.   
  
Ashur found his voice. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded, stomach churning.   
  
The beast's eyes turned half-lidded at the stranger’s touch and seemed to turn its head into the petting.   
  
A dark chuckle sounded through the night. “I’m surprised he hasn’t told you yet. But then, Sleet has always been one for secrecy.”   
  
Ashur froze, understanding pouring over him with an iciness that was compounded by the driving rain. “Frost.”   
  
“Yes, boy, that is my name.” The man stepped closer and it was if the shadows flexed backward and a light that must have been magical in origin appeared, pale and lifeless but giving off enough luminance for Ashur to see more of Frost’s features.  
  
He watched as Frost crouched, grabbing a handful of Fafnir's hair and dragging the unconscious deity upward. His gloved hand seemed to stir something in Fafnir and the deity’s eyes fluttered, his legs kicking out as he was hauled to his feet.   
  
Fear and worry swept through Ashur, turning his knees to jelly. “What are you doing?”   
  
“Relax.” Frost’s voice attempted to be soothing, but Ashur could hear it for the taunt it was. “You’ll join his fate soon enough.”   
  
The feeling of power in the air increased exponentially. Ashur felt it crawling over his skin like a thousand tiny insects. Felt it pushing against his body with an intense pressure. The beast chuckled, its claws digging into Ashur’s flesh like a cat kneading a soft blanket.   
  
Ashur didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t struggle; he couldn’t fight. Fafnir was twitching in Frost’s grip, one hand locked in his hair, another gloved hand squeezing the deity’s throat. Blood poured from multiple wounds, all gained in defense of Ashur, turning the ground beneath them a scarlet, muddy slur.   
  
Then the pain came, like something had dug a hand into Ashur’s chest and wrapped fingers around his heart. That hand pulled and tugged, determined to yank the beating organ free. And Ashur screamed, writhing against the wall, the inhuman gleam in Frost’s eyes all the more frightening for its human owner.   
  
He was going to die. Frost was going to kill him.   
  
Ashur was going to die.   
  
A sob rose and died in his throat, Ashur choking on the feeling. A fierce cold whipped through his body, turning his veins to ice. Fafnir had begun to thrash, a glow enveloping his entire body and again, Ashur felt the tugging in his body.   
  
Frost grinned, eyes bright and dangerous.   
  
Ashur was going to die.   
  


* * *


	20. Hourglass - Chapter Eight

The power swept over Sleet like a tangible blow and he dropped to one knee. He had felt this power before. He knew the taste of it.   
  
_Frost._   
  
Rain poured down, drenching him. The wind howled, whipping in all directions, lashing Sleet with its fury. He could barely hear anything above the noise save for the sound of his own heart pounding.   
  
“Why isn’t he attacking?” Sleet wondered aloud.   
  
He could feel the power, but unlike all the other instances, there was no sign of an attack. Creatures didn’t crowd the streets and the air. There were no explosions. The air lacked the taste of blood.   
  
Erebus shifted in Sleet’s mind. _Why do you assume he’s not?_  
  
“The general lack of terrified screaming, murderous monsters, buildings in flames…” Sleet returned, just to name a few.   
  
He forced himself to stand. The pressure of power was still oppressive, but sheer force of will kept Sleet on his feet. He was close now. He could feel it.   
  
_Perhaps Frost understands subtlety._  
  
Sleet paused, considering the words. “There’s an insult in that, isn’t there?” he demanded.   
  
In the back of his mind, Erebus laughed. The bastard.   
  
Something growled behind Sleet. And it wasn’t something he could easily blame on the howling winds or falling rain. His entire body stiffened, fingers flexing around the hilt of his dagger.   
  
“Tell me that was your stomach,” Sleet whispered, swallowing thickly.   
  
Erebus was distressingly quiet. _Now would be a good time to run._ He paused. _Unless you’ve suddenly developed superb fighting skills I’ve yet to learn about._  
  
Sleet didn’t give himself time to consider it. Or even look over his shoulder. He sprang forward, boots slapping across the muddy ground. Almost immediately, he heard the sound of steps behind him. More than just one thing, whatever it was, gave chase.   
  
And they were obviously faster than him.   
  
A weight fell over Sleet’s back, driving him to the ground. He hit face-first, getting a mouthful of mud and water. Sleet spat, struggling to breathe, and flailed flailing a body that didn’t seem to have much form. He felt claws digging into his back, trying to cut through his clothes, and heard jaws snap near his ear. But there was no evidence of a creature balancing its weight above him.   
  
Sleet threw himself to the side, rolling over the muddy ground. He caught a glimpse of gem-like eyes and pointed teeth before he rolled again and sprang to his feet. One hand lashed out with a dagger, which passed through the body of the creature as though it didn’t exist.   
  
The beast growled and launched again. Sleet ducked, skidding across the mud, when another leapt out of the dark. He couldn’t see anything save their glowing eyes and fangs, not even the flashes of light giving substance to their bodies. It was as if they were nothing more than eyes and teeth.   
  
But the lashing of claws across one arm proved their material forms.  
  
“What are they?” Sleet demanded, detecting a note of hysteria in his voice that didn’t serve his masculinity at all.   
  
He ducked another and cried out when claws raked down his back, drawing blood. It stung, like needles dancing across his spine, and Sleet smelled blood above the scent of rain.   
  
A third beast joined the fray and three gems surrounded him: sapphire, emerald, turquoise. He could tell them apart by their eyes alone. They moved around him in fluid motions, monsters without substance, fangs and eyes bobbing up and down. They circled Sleet, hissing and spitting like huge cats.   
  
Shadow beasts, Erebus informed him, a note of worry in his tone. _From the underworld. They can only be harmed by magic._  
  
Sleet groaned, scanning the area for an out. “Great.”   
  
A beast crouched, and Sleet took his chance for what it was worth. He dove to the side to avoid one of them, rolled across the ground to avoid a second, and sprang to his feet in a motion that would have made Frost proud. He was running before he had completely stood, boots scrambling across the mud and making it difficult to find purchase.   
  
The creatures howled and gave chase, feet padding across the mud as though they didn't need to touch the ground. Sleet could practically smell their hunger and intent to kill.   
  
_If you would just--_  
  
Sleet huffed. “Yeah, yeah. I know. I heard you the first four dozen times.”   
  
And for the first time, Sleet actually considered it. He couldn’t harm these things. They were going to catch him and eat him.   
  
One pulled up beside him and leapt, Sleet dodged to the side, slamming against a building front. The wood rattled as the creature landed beside him and Sleet twisted his body against the building, avoiding the rake of sharp claws.   
  
Erebus sighed, a sound of aggravation and worry. _That alley. To the left. Take it!_  
  
Sleet spotted a dark allery. “Why?”   
  
_Just do it!_  
  
He pelted across the ground, nearly tripping over his own feet as the mud sucked at his boots, and all but stumbled into the alley. His hand slapped against the ground to keep him from falling as he struggled to avoid various items in his path.   
  
The creatures growled, deep and throaty, and pursued. It was a small alley; he could already see the exit on the other side. Sleet nearly swallowed his tongue as he looked over his shoulder, seeing three pairs of eyes gaining on him. Hungry and bright.   
  
Sleet whipped his head back around and promptly collided with another body. He had a second to recognize Tungsten before he and the mage went down in a tangle of limbs, splashing through the mud. Sleet cursed, struggling to see, and caught sight of Asclepius leaping over both of them, throwing her palms out as she stood between the humans and the shadow beasts.   
  
“ _Repeyo_!”   
  
Magic flooded into the small alley, crawling over Sleet’s skin and raising the hairs on his arm.   
  
Something rippled in the dark and the beasts smacked into an invisible barrier with startled yelps.   
  
An elbow jabbed into Sleet’s belly; a knee into his inner thigh. Sleet cursed, struggling to untangle himself from Tungsten, a task made no easier by the mage’s soaked, clinging robes.  
  
“A little help here?” Asclepius demanded, driven back as more of the shadow beasts threw themselves at the barrier. They met resistance, but it was clear Asclepius couldn’t destroy them, only block their attacks.   
  
“Get off me,” Sleet said and slipped in the mud, falling face first and getting a mouthful of the sludge for his efforts.   
  
Tungsten struggled to twist himself out of the way. “Apologies, Sleet-san.”   
  
Sleet wished that he could convey a glare in the darkness. Especially when Tungsten gave one valiant flop in an effort to get free, and jammed an elbow across Sleet’s back, where the creature’s claws had ripped through shirt and flesh. The motion stung, but Sleet was free of the mage’s weight, so he didn’t bother to complain.   
  
It didn’t help that Erebus snickered in the back of his mind.   
  
_‘A little warning would have been nice,_ ’ Sleet thought sourly, slapping a palm against the ground to help him rise. He was coated, head to toe, in mud now. Disgusting.   
  
_But it wouldn’t have been as amusing.'_  
  
“Tungsten!” Asclepius shouted.   
  
The mage stumbled forward, tripping over his soggy robes, but he produced his casting rod and aimed it in the general direction of the beasts. “ _Firos_!”   
  
Orange flame filled the night, sizzling as the rain splattered over it. The fire passed through Asclepius’ barrier and barreled right into the creatures. Hissing and spitting filled the air and the gem-like eyes retreated into the darkness. For a minute it seemed to have worked, the blaze dimming to nothing and the night fading into silence.   
  
Until another body threw itself at the barrier and the shield gave an audible crack, like that of a broken mirror or glass.   
  
“Something else!” Asclepius demanded, a note of strain – and frustration perhaps – in her tone.   
  
Tungsten’s casting rod whipped through the air in no certain direction. “That’s all I know!” the mage declared.   
  
The shield gave another visible and audible crack.   
  
_'This is the help you led me to?’_ Sleet muttered, backing toward the other end of the alley. If there were beasts in front, he dreaded to think of what was behind.   
  
Erebus didn’t answer. Go figure.   
  
“Use the one I just taught you!” Asclepius’ voice was just short of a shriek.   
  
Tungsten blinked. “Oh, right. That one.” He twisted his wrist, and directed the rod with a sharp motion toward the shadows. “ _Abdico_.”   
  
Sleet felt the power behind the spell tugging at his insides. He watched, fascinated, as something invisible tore through the air and slammed into the shadow creatures. Their gem-like eyes blazed as they fell back, bodies twisting and writhing while a dim glow surrounded their intangible forms. Fangs parted in a snarl before there was a swell of magic and the creatures abruptly ceasd to be.  
  
Nothing remained but the sound of falling rain and Asclepius’ soft panting.   
  
They waited for a few precious moments, to be certain the spell had worked, before Asclepius dropped the barrier.   
  
“Wahoo!” she celebrated, and gave a flying leap, throwing herself at Tungsten and hugging him tightly. “You did it! I told you it was possible!”   
  
Tungsten staggered under the addition of her weight, scarf fallen and revealing cheeks tinged red. “I can’t believe it,” he said. He glanced at his casting rod and then his hand, as if to confirm for himself that it had been his own efforts and no master mage hiding behind the trash had given him help.   
  
Sleet, his heart still thudding, took the opportunity to catch his breath. Fright danced through his veins, but he forced it down with slow, even breaths. His back stung; it was only a minor inconvenience. More annoying was the mud that coated his clothing.  
  
He looked at Tungsten, who was attempting to pry Asclepius away, and then Sleet remembered.   
  
“Where’s Adair?” Sleet asked. “Wasn’t he with you?”   
  
Tungsten, extracting himself from Asclepius’ arm, looked embarrassed. “We were separated,” he said. “Adair started running and I tried to follow, but I tripped. By the time I got up, I’d lost him. He never even noticed I wasn’t behind him.”   
  
“Something must’ve happened to Ashur,” Sleet muttered. He never knew twins could be connected like that, though he’d heard stories. Or maybe it was more that they were twins and animus. He couldn’t be certain which.   
  
“We were trying to find him,” Asclepius said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her curls didn’t bob above her shoulders as usual, instead hanging in loose, dripping ringlets. Not even the rain could dampen her usual humor and spirits.   
  
Sleet raked a hand over his head, wishing the rain would relent. “Those creatures can’t be all that Balaam sent.”   
  
“They were only distractions,” Asclepius agreed. “We have to find Ashur and Adair. I don’t like this silence.”   
  
Sleet didn’t either, but he kept his comments to himself. That Balaam wasn’t attacking outright, that he was using shadows and quiet rather than blood and flames was disconcerting. The shivers dancing under Sleet’s skin weren’t from the rain and cold alone.  
  
“Can’t you find them?” Sleet demanded, walking to the end of the alley and peering into the dark street. It was hard to see much of anything, but a few torches burned here and there, adamant against the force of the rain.   
  
_Have you given up on Frost then?_  
  
Sleet hadn’t, but he didn’t feel the need to elaborate to his anima. Erebus could read the truth out of his mind if he wished.   
  
Asclepius shook her head. “There’s so much power in the air, I can’t distinguish it all.” She looked pained, beyond frustrated. “I’m sorry. I’m not one of the elder ones. My magic is still pretty new.” She wrung her hands together and Tungsten placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.   
  
Sleet could feel it, that pull tugging on him again. It was getting stronger now, more vicious, like something had hooked claws into his chest and was physically pulling him into the dark. He stepped out into the main road, where the rain was – miraculously – lessening. Nothing showed itself in the dim, but Sleet couldn’t shake the feeling that something was there.   
  
“Sleet?”   
  
Tungsten followed him out of the alley.   
  
The thief shook his head, his every sense screaming at him. It was his thieving instincts that spoke to him now. Something was coming. Something they couldn’t avoid. He couldn’t be sure what it was.  
  
Asclepius joined them, her energy lessened. One hand lifted, fingers dancing through the air as though she were feeling the threads of the wind itself. She opened her mouth to comment, eyes widening in surprise, and that’s when the noise split the night.   
  
Sleet’s head whipped to the east and he stared with horror as a column of flame and grit and stone rose into the air, making the ground itself tremble. The whole world seemed to tilt on its axis and he fought to keep his footing as the earth beneath him tossed and rolled. It felt like a quake, and around him, the buildings shook and rattled.   
  
Something in Sleet’s chest tightened and he gasped, palm slapping against his breast, unconsciously trying to hold himself together. Pain rocked through him, like he'd been stabbed through and through.   
  
Behind him, Asclepius cried out, dropping to her knees. Tungsten moved to her side, making worried noises, but Sleet’s eyes were for the evidence of destruction alone.   
  
What happened?  
  
Erebus made a sound of distress in the back of Sleet’s mind, a wordless noise that explained everything. His reaction – and Asclepius’ – was all the answer Sleet needed.   
  
Balaam had killed another anima. But who?   
  
Sleet took a step toward the explosion, mouth pulled into a frown. The tightness in his chest hadn’t eased, nor the feeling of power in the air. It still pressed on his shoulders, sought to drive him to the ground. The buildings had stopped shaking though the earth continued to tremble, shaking like a crying child.   
  
The shadows in front of Sleet shifted, twisting and churning about themselves, taking shape. He took an unconscious step back, freezing, wondering if more of the beasts were about to emerge.   
  
But what stepped out of the darkness was not a monster.   
  
“My Sleet,” Frost’s voice drawled, but Sleet couldn’t be sure who had greeted him this time around. Was it Frost? Was it Balaam?   
  
He didn’t know; he couldn’t see the truth beneath the blood that spattered Frost’s clothing. The manic grin on Frost’s face was something he’d never seen Frost express, but then, how well did Sleet know Frost?   
  
Magic crawled over Frost’s – Balaam’s? – skin, flickering like lightning beneath the surface of his flesh. And where he walked, the mud dried and crackled.   
  
Sleet didn’t know what to call the being in front of him. He only settled for Frost because the name was most familiar, the face was most familiar.   
  
“What did you do?” Sleet demanded, feeling his hands pull into fists. His stomach clenched with nausea and he realized, for the first time, that he openly feared Frost.   
  
The stranger before him tilted his head to the side, dark eyes glittering. “Have you turned against me already, Sleet?” he asked, purring his name in a manner that sent chills of revulsion down Sleet’s spine. “Are you no longer mine?”   
  
Sleet licked his lips, feeling trapped by that stare. “I don’t belong to you,” he said, and his voice lacked the conviction he intended.   
  
Why did Balaam have to take Frost’s face? Why didn’t he appear in his own form like the other anima?   
  
Frost approached, the feeling of magic growing stronger and stronger, stealing Sleet’s breath. “Then are you theirs?”   
  
“Why are you doing this?”   
  
Sleet jumped at the second voice, having completely forgotten that Tungsten and Asclepius were there. It took great effort for Sleet to turn his head, seeing Tungsten approach Sleet and Frost with anger brightening his green eyes.   
  
“Why?” Tungsten demanded again, displaying bravery Sleet hadn’t thought Tungsten possessed. But then, Tungsten had never shown himself to be a coward as much as he had been willing to display his fear. Unlike Sleet, who’d only ever been just a coward.   
  
That thought burned in Sleet’s gullet, a shame he couldn’t stomach.   
  
“Why else? For power.” Frost shrugged, dragging his tongue over his lips as though trying to taste the magic he had called. “Old and wise. Tempered. Delicious. The fire song has filled me, lucky for you.”   
  
Sleet stiffened. “What do you mean?”   
  
Frost cocked his head to the side, eerily, like a carrion-eater watching its next meal. There was little of sanity left in that look. “It means I’ll claim your lives another day. But for now… a present I should think. For my Sleet.” He lifted a hand and snapped his fingers.   
  
Magic swirled behind Sleet, he could feel it pouring over his skin. He didn’t look at first, watching instead as Frost smiled and stepped backward, into a pool of darkness that reached up with black tentacles and encapsulated his body. The last Sleet saw of Frost was a look, twisted by darker emotions than Sleet could interpret, and then Frost was gone, swallowed by the shadows.   
  
“Sleet.”   
  
Tungsten’s voice, barely above a whisper, dragged Sleet back to the reality of the situation. He turned to see what Frost had summoned, and nearly choked on his tongue.   
  
Some thing rose out of the dark like a massive, hulking amalgam of monsters. It looked like something borne out of Sleet’s darkest nightmares, a fusion of flesh that made him feel cold all over. The rain had lessened to a bare drizzle that did nothing to conceal the horror.   
  
It held a serpent’s snout, riddled with teeth, and rising above the creature’s head were massive horns, pushing forward like dangerous thorns. It had wings like a bat, the claw on it congruently large, and four legs, thickly muscled with gleaming talons on the ends of them. A tail as thick as a tree trunk rose up and behind the beast, and the end of it better resembled a scorpion’s spine, glistening with venom.   
  
Tungsten made a strangled sound in his throat. “A chimaera,” he whispered, all of the blood leaving his face until he looked like a pale ghost of himself.   
  
Backing away, Sleet didn’t dare take his eyes off the creature. He had heard of a chimaera, but knew little about them. Were they intelligent? He didn’t know. Were they vicious and prone to attack? He didn’t know that either. But he doubted Balaam would summon the chimaera if it were the type to frolick playfully through a field of flowers.   
  
“What do we do?” Sleet demanded as the creature tossed its draconic head, blinking serpentine eyes slowly as though waking from a long slumber.   
  
Tungsten, fear in his voice, turned, struggling not to trip on his robes. “Run!” he suggested and took off into the alley.   
  
In the back of Sleet’s mind, Erebus echoed the sentiment, and Sleet caught a glimpse of Asclepius hurtling herself after Tungsten, a look of fear clouding her face. Fear. From a deity. The chimaera frightened someone who couldn’t die by normal, mortal means.   
  
Sleet didn’t stop to think about it. A sound split the night, a cross between a roar and a screech, shoving haste into Sleet’s movements. He ran, without pinning a destination in mind, fear making his heart throb so hard he thought it would burst from his ribs.   
  
Behind him, the chimaera’s tail whipped around, crashing against the side of a building and turning the wood to splinters. And then it moved, bounding across the earth as though the mud weren’t a hindrance at all.   
  
The path Tungsten had taken was ignored. Eyes the color of polished topaz pinned hungrily on Sleet’s back as though Sleet were the only tasty morsel within a thirty league radius.   
  
“Great,” Sleet groaned, shoving himself into an alley between two buildings and dismayed to find the chimaera leap above him, landing on the roofs with little effort. “It’s after me.”   
  
_Still convinced he’s Frost?_  
  
Another shrill roar pierced the night and Sleet swallowed nausea. “I’ll listen to your I told you so only if I live through this!” Sleet shouted and ducked to avoid snapping fang as the sinuous neck snaked down between the buildings in a desperate grab for his flesh.   
  
That Erebus didn’t bother to reassure him of his likely survival only made the hysteria creeping into Sleet’s mind that much more potent.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
The smell of burning wood struck Alaris first, along with the taste of recently expended magic. She lifted her arm, covering her mouth with her sleeve. Spent power pulsed weakly in the air, drawing her to the source like a moth to flames. She didn’t have to look at Hephaestion for confirmation. Alaris knew that Balaam had to have been involved.   
  
“Fire,” Raven muttered from beside her, his eye dark with anger. “The buildings look to have been burned to a crisp.” His jaw clenched with the same fury that caused the tight grip on his sword’s hilt.   
  
Raven sought to fight an enemy that had yet to show his face. The tension was evident in every readied muscle and the annoyance in his expression. In their many years of acquaintance, Alaris had grown to understand Raven very well.   
  
Alaris inclined her head, rounding a corner of a building that had once been a bakery of sorts, before it had collapsed inward. “If Fafnir were fighting…” but her words died on her lips.   
  
There was a clenching inside of her. Hephaestion’s sorrow or her own, Alaris wasn’t even sure anymore. But her mind took her back – back to weeks before when she had watched Sybaris and her anima as they were killed by Frost. Certainly the destruction that lay before her shared similarities to the rubble and devastation of back then.   
  
The earth itself was little more than a smoking pit with the surrounding buildings completely collapsed. Small fires burned here and there, spitting ash and smoke into the air. Remnants of a powerful magic clung to the wreckage and the air was thick, hard to breathe.   
  
“Balaam was here,” Hephaestion murmured, coalescing at Alaris’ side. His age-lined face was downcast with sorrow. “And I can only assume that he achieved his ends.”   
  
“You mean…?” Alaris was unable to complete her question. Only a fool would believe that Balaam had failed. Not with the evidence so plain before them.   
  
Raven moved ahead of her, poking around the debris with dogged intent. He couldn’t feel the magic as Alaris did. He couldn’t feel the sorrow that clung to the broken buildings, or the tangible bitterness of a slain immortal.   
  
“Who was it?” Alaris asked instead, forcing strength into her shoulders.  
  
The rain had stopped, a small relief, but in that moment, Alaris wished for it to return. Perhaps it would help to wash away the lingering odor of a fierce blaze and the awful stench of fear and despair that clung heavily to the air.   
  
“If I had a guess… Fafnir,” Hephaestion answered, his fingers white-knuckled around the head of his staff. Grief and rage battled for a home in his eyes.   
  
Alaris sucked in a breath, closing her eyes in regret. They had been too late. If Fafnir had been killed by Balaam, then no doubt Ashur hadn’t lived either.   
  
“Alaris!”   
  
Raven bellowed at her, forcing her eyes to snap back open. “What?” she demanded, glancing his direction.   
  
He had thrust his sword into the ground and was in the midst of pawing at a pile of debris. “I found something,” he answered with a grunt, tossing aside a piece of shattered wood.   
  
“Something or someone?” Alaris asked, hurrying to his side. Hephaestion stayed by her, moving with a grace that Alaris could never hope to duplicate.   
  
“Someone,” Raven clarified and reached for another piece of wreckage, tossing aside a few bits of rock.   
  
Only then did Alaris see the pale arm, partially clothed in blue fabric, sticking out from beneath the rubble. Her heart pounding in her throat, she hastened to help Raven move aside the wreckage, praying that they found a survivor and not just a body. Praying that it was one of their companions and not just an innocent bystander.   
  
She could only hope that Aesir was listening.   
  
Another body came into view first, one that wasn’t attached to the outstretched arm, curled protectively around the first. It took several seconds for Alaris to recognize him – Iblion. The twin pair of axes were familiar, but more than that, the air tattoos on the wind deity’s cheeks were most identifiable. Which meant he was probably protecting Adair.   
  
She dropped to her knees as Raven grumbled under his breath, laboring to remove the rest of the debris. Shaking fingers reached for Iblion and Alaris muttered a prayer of thanks as her touch encountered skin still warm to the touch. Warm breath ghosted over her fingers. Iblion was alive.   
  
_Of course he was alive_ , Alaris scolded herself several seconds later. A deity could not be killed by mortal means – he would simply return to Elysium if that occurred.   
  
But what of Adair?   
  
Beside her, Hephaesion crouched, laying his palm against Iblion’s hair, caked with blood and debris. Alaris breathed shallowly to prevent herself from growing sick on the scent of blood.   
  
“Iblion,” Hephaestion murmured, and Alaris felt the magic in the air, a brief surge of cleansing power that rippled outward.   
  
A tremble wracked Iblion’s body before he sucked in a breath and started to cough, deep, wracking noises. He curled over his burden before his eyes fluttered open and Iblion jerked upright, only to double over and begin hacking all over again.   
  
Alaris left Iblion in Hephaestion’s care, her anima in the midst of attempting to heal Iblion and gather a coherent conversation from him. Alaris’ own attention focused on the human Iblion had been protecting.  
  
Her eyes widened in surprise. “It’s Ashur,” Alaris breathed, the short hair and the blue shade of the robes unmistakable despite the dust and debris caking both.   
  
She scrabbled forward to feel for signs of life. Her hand pressed against Ashur’s neck and felt his pulse fluttering against her fingertips. Ashur was injured, but he would live.   
  
Why had Iblion been protecting Ashur? Where was Fafnir if Ashur was here? And by Aesir, where was Adair?   
  
So many questions. Alaris’ head spun with them. But she couldn’t focus on that right now. She had to tend to Ashur. He was wounded and judging from the blow to his head, wouldn’t be gaining consciousness anytime soon.   
  
“What happened?” Raven demanded as he helped Alaris pull Ashur from the last of the rubble and lay him across Raven’s cloak on a clear patch of ground.   
  
Alaris shook her head, gently touching the gash on Ashur’s head. “I don’t know,” she said and wished she had her medicinal herbs. But they were back at the inn with the rest of her belongings. She had to clean these wounds before she could heal them.   
  
“It was Balaam,” Iblion said hoarsely, still hacking as though he had breathed in a year’s worth of ash and smoke. “He killed Fafnir.” His gaze fell, voice hitching on the name.   
  
Hephaestion frowned, magic trickling out of his fingers. “And Adair? Why isn’t he here?”   
  
Iblion shook his head, looking pained, though it seemed an agony more internal than physical. “I don’t know. It’s all a blur.” He winced and held his head. “He’s alive. I can feel him. But he’s not here. I can’t hear his voice. He’s not here.”   
  
Hephaestion interceded, making gentle, shushing noises that were probably meant to soothe.   
  
Adair was not dead. That was a relief in unto itself. Alaris didn’t believe for a single moment that Adair would run off and leave Ashur alone either. Adair’s protective instincts ran too deep for that, if their brief meeting had taught Alaris anything. But why would Balaam take Adair? Why not just kill him? It didn’t make any sense.   
  
Alaris breathed in and out, trying to calm her churning thoughts. Balaam hadn’t lingered this time either. He hadn’t tried to take Iblion’s powers, or go after any of the others despite the fact that they were separated and vulnerable. Could he only take the magic of one demi-deity at a time?  
  
“Alaris-san!”   
  
The voice hollering for her this time wasn’t Raven, he had taken to standing with an intense glare focused outward, speaking to Karasu as the raven perched on his shoulder. No, there was a note of panic in this newcomer’s tone and Alaris looked up to see Tungsten hurtling toward them, looking worse for wear. His clothes were heavy with mud, his green eyes dark with terror.   
  
“Sleet’s in trouble!” Tungsten gasped out, askidding to a halt next to them. “Balaam called this creature and it didn’t even think about attacking me. It just went after him. And I didn’t have enough spells to stop it. He needs help.” And then Tungsten noticed Ashur and Iblion and he paled even further. “By Asherah, what happened?”   
  
“We’ll explain later,” Hephaestion said. “Where’s Asclepius?”   
  
Tungsten whipped around, searching over his shoulder. “She was right behind me! I swear.”   
  
“I’m here!” Asclepius called, pelting out from a narrow alleyway and waving her arms madly. “It’s a chimaera! Balaam called an Aesir-be-damned chimaera!” Asclepius huffed, her eyes brimming with rage.   
  
Hephaestion frowned in disapproval. “I hadn’t realized he’d regained so much of his strength.” He shook his head. “Iblion?”   
  
The wind deity shook his head, laboring to get to his feet. “I’ll go,” he said, despite the wobble in his knees. “You can’t take down a chimaera with rejection and shields. I have to go.”   
  
“No.” Alaris was firm. Iblion might have been a deity but it was clear that Adair’s absence had shaken him. He could barely focus. “Raven.”   
  
“I’m going to spend this entire damned quest protecting that brat,” Raven snarled, whirling away from them.   
  
He complained, but he checked his weapons anyway.  
  
“You don’t even know where you’re going!” Tungsten called after him, chewing on his bottom lip in worry.   
  
Raven waved a dagger over his shoulder. “I’ll find him. I seem to have this uncanny ability to sniff the little shit out.”   
  
“Or he just has to follow the noises of destruction,” Asclepius muttered as she wrapped her arms around herself.  
  
The rain had ended, but the air still felt cold and damp. It stank of death and destruction, bitter with the odor of burnt buildings.   
  
Alaris shook her head and focused on healing Ashur. It was all she could do at the moment. And if she had to push aside thoughts of yet another failure on their part, that was her burden to bear.   
  


* * *


	21. Hourglass - Chapter Nine

“You know,” Sleet gasped as he scrambled to avoid snapping teeth. “I hate to say this, but now would be the perfect time for Raven to show up.”   
  
Sleet dropped to the ground and rolled, crowing when the serpentine head of the chimaera got a mouthful of mud. Sleet slid into a crouch and sprang forward, his dagger slicing out at one of the chimaera’s taloned feet. Blood spilled hot over his fingers, but the wound was a mere nuisance to the beast.   
  
The chimaera reared and a leg struck out, slamming into Sleet’s side. He went flying into the side of the building with enough force to drive the breath out of his body. He landed in the mud with a wet plop.   
  
Sleet collapsed, hacking, struggling to breathe. His head spun but he had to move. He couldn’t linger.   
  
_Sleet, help isn’t coming_. Erebus sounded strained. Desperate.   
  
_‘Don’t remind me,_ ’ Sleet gasped, internally because he didn’t have the breath to speak aloud.   
  
He heard the chimaera’s attack more than he saw it and Sleet threw his body to the side, barely avoiding getting stabbed through the gut by the chimaera’s tail. The beast cawed and reached for him with its clawed wings, treated more like arms when it wasn’t flying Sleet could only assume.   
  
_If you would just—_  
  
Sleet scrambled, ducking under one scraping claw aimed for his face. _'I know!'_  
  
Another limb came flying at him and it was too dark, too fast. Sleet couldn’t identify the appendage, only knowing that it crashed against his hip and knocked him to the ground. Stars exploded behind his eyes.   
  
The wind whistled and suddenly there was pain. Like liquid fire shooting through his veins as something stabbed through his thrice-injured shoulder, pinning him to the soil. Sleet screamed and writhed, kicking out at an unseen target. One hand pried at the thing piercing him, the other wildly stabbing at it.   
  
It had to be the scorpion tail because he could feel his blade skittering across the carapace-covered surface. More venom pumped into his body, making him burn and thrash in a desperate effort to be free. He was going to die. He was going to –  
  
 _Sleet!_ Erebus screamed at him. His voice roared through Sleet’s mind, chasing away all other thoughts.   
  
“Fine! I get it!” Sleet hollered, aloud or in his mind he couldn’t even be sure. “Help me! Save me! I accept you! Whatever the hell magic words I’m supposed to say here!” He thought the last was more like begging, a sob creeping out of his throat.   
  
He hurt, by the gods he hurt. A pain like nothing he had experienced.   
  
Erebus said nothing, but Sleet could feel it, the taste and smell and touch of magic in the air. Swelling and growing. Even the chimaera must have sensed it because it cocked its draconic head to the side, swiveling one topaz eye to the sky.   
  
The chimaera took a step back, withdrawing its sting with a jerk. Sleet shouted as that brought a new flood of pain, yanking his body up from the ground and dropping him down again. Sleet hacked, struggling to catch his breath, one hand going to the wound in his shoulder. He could already feel the blood pooling out of him. He didn’t know if he would survive this.   
  
Above him, the sky rumbled, clouds swirling together. The chimaera took another uneasy step in retreat, clicking its fangs together warily.   
  
A hand grabbed Sleet’s shirt, jerking him backward. He flailed, shouting when the action tore at the wound in his shoulder, and felt himself pulled to his feet. Sleet whirled, arm raised, and found himself staring at Erebus, the deity looking even younger in person than he had in the strange dream place where Sleet had first met Erebus.   
  
Golden eyes were narrowed with anger, Erebus’ lips thinned with the same. He still wore the draping black robes, cinched at the middle, and his other hand curled around a scythe, the blade gleaming despite the dark of the night.   
  
“That’s it?” Sleet demanded, a near shriek of hysteria. “I accept you and all I get is for you to appear in person?”   
  
Erebus’ eyes slid toward him briefly before focusing on the chimaera, which seemed to have noticed the new arrival, its nostrils flaring. “What did you expect? Your body to suddenly transform? Or maybe you would suddenly have power beyond your wildest dreams?”   
  
Outside of Sleet’s head, Erebus’ voice was deeper. More masculine. Less youthful.   
  
Sleet shifted, his hand pressing over his wound. “Well… yeah.”   
  
Erebus shook his head. “Humans,” he muttered.   
  
The chimaera hissed, drawing their attention back to the monster.   
  
Taking a step backward, Sleet tried to focus through the heat surging throughout his body. He didn’t feel weak or sickly, like a poison ought to make him feel, but he couldn’t deny the flashes of overwhelming heat. And the pain, pulsing sluggishly from the wound in his shoulder.   
  
“I don’t think it likes to be ignored,” Sleet said, struggling to remember where and when he had dropped his daggers. Not that they had proven to be effective weapons against the beast.   
  
“Chimaeras are arrogant creatures,” Erebus agreed and pushed Sleet back, never taking his eyes off the huge carnivore. “And rather difficult to kill, I might add.”   
  
Sleet groaned. “Great. I sure hope you have a--”  
  
His words died in his throat as Erebus shoved him to the side and the scorpion tail came hurtling toward them, pounding into the dirt where they had been standing. Sleet rolled over his injured shoulder, gritting his teeth against the pain, and scrambled to his feet, ducking under a lashing talon. He spotted a dagger and quickly scooped it up. He couldn’t see Erebus anymore, not with the chimaera now between them, but worrying for an immortal demi-deity was his last concern.   
  
A ball of sickly-green flame lit the night, slamming into the chimaera’s side. The beast stumbled, the fire pouring over its body like a flowing liquid. Sleet stared, wishing he had the kind of power that could do that. Or even a useful weapon.   
  
“Sleet!”  
  
“I don’t know what to do!” Sleet hollered, slipping in the mud to avoid one of the chimaera’s flailing limbs. It was keening now as the sickening smell of scorched flesh filled the air.  
  
The chimaera pushed back several feet, giving Sleet a chance to glimpse Erebus. The silver metal of his scythe cut through the air, slicing one of the chimaera’s wings to ribbons.   
  
Golden eyes flickered Sleet’s direction. “Trust your instincts!” Erebus shouted back, and then darted forward, more green flame spilling from his fingers.   
  
Sleet let loose a growl of frustration. Instincts? What the hell! That was no use to him at all.   
  
He ground his teeth, pain making his head throb and ache. He couldn’t think through it. He tried to recall his mythologies, all the stories his mother used to whisper to him. He couldn’t remember anything about Erebus. What sort of powers should he have? Sleet didn’t know!  
  
He glanced at his dagger. For the first time, Sleet wished he had a sword. A big, pointy sword.   
  
“Sleet!”   
  
He dove forward, missing the sweep of a taloned foot. The involuntary reflex found Sleet under the chimaera – not a good place to be.   
  
Refusing to panic, thought it burbled up through his gut and into his chest cavity, Sleet gripped his dagger and scrambled on hand and knees. He could smell the beast – a mix of sulfur and something charred – and it churned his stomach. The chimaera exuded warmth like a hearth and above him, it twitched, whimpering. Erebus must have struck it again.   
  
Something slammed into Sleet’s back, sending him sprawling. The back of the chimaera’s foot, hell, he didn’t know. He hit the mud with a wet smack and slid through the thick grime, rolling to avoid being trampled. This was going no better than before he had summoned Erebus!   
  
Sleet surged to his feet, clambering out from beneath the chimaera and somehow ending up behind the massive beast. Definitely not where he needed to be, but safer. Coward though he was, Sleet balked at the idea of leaving Erebus to fend for himself.   
  
Green flame lit the night, spilling over the chimaera’s carapace-covered back. Its wings twitched, spreading out into the air, one torn and tattered. And he watched as its neck and head snapped forward.   
  
Follow your instincts, Erebus had said. Well, fat lot of good they did him right now. All Sleet was good for was sneaking in and out of buildings or fat purses.   
  
Sleet strained his memories, trying to recall the various bits and pieces of information Erebus had shoved at him. He was the god of the underworld. He supposedly governed the passage of souls. Obviously, a green fire was some kind of element to him. He managed the underworld, or hell as it was known in some cultures. Like the Reaper.   
  
The Reaper…   
  
Dark shadows. Wicked scythe. Gravelly laughter. Skeletal fingers. The sound of clanking chains… Chains were familiar. Sleet distinctly remebered something about chains, something recently. Another battle…?  
  
Sleet’s head snapped upward. Chains!  
  
Something tugged at his core, like someone had shoved a hand into his chest, wrapping fingers around his center and tugging. Sleet gasped, dropping to one knee. It didn't hurt, but it wasn't comfortable either. Fatigue washed over him and the sound of rattling metal floated to his ears.   
  
Sleet stared. And stared. And stared some more as thick chains burst out of nothing, from the ground, the buildings, everywhere. The linked metal shot straight toward the fuming, scorched chimaera, wrapping around limbs, wings, whatever jutted from the beast’s body. Movements hampered, the chimaera shrieked, twisting its massive body to break free from the confines.   
  
Sleet blinked. Had he done that?   
  
He walked around the chimaera in a daze, watching the beast yank at the chains. The ground shuddered, buildings cracking and splitting, but the chains held. They were thick and black, Sleet didn’t recognize the type of metal, and dragging his hand down the length of one revealed that they were cold as ice. So cold that they burned.   
  
“Damn,” Sleet breathed, awe replacing some of the overwhelming fear. Of course, his shoulder still ached and pulsed blood, but it was a dim annoyance.   
  
Okay. So maybe there was a slim benefit to this whole animum bond thing.   
  
Power swelled in the air. Sleet didn’t need to look to know it was Erebus. Perhaps the demi-deity was concocting something capable of smiting the chimaera in one fell blow. Sleet gripped his dagger, circling around the trapped beast until he laid eyes on his anima.   
  
Golden eyes gleamed with an unnatural power – not so unusual for a demi-deity perhaps. The curve of his scythe was slick with blood and one of Erebus’ hands still glowed a faint green.   
  
“I see you managed to overcome your fear,” Erebus said as Sleet came into view, approaching the deity’s left side.   
  
Sleet snorted, looking up at the thrashing beast. “I don’t think they’ll hold for long. Can’t you just look at and make it die or something?”   
  
“I do not rule death itself,” Erebus said. “That power belonged to another.”   
  
“Who?”   
  
One of the chimaera's trapped limbs suddenly tore free, sending the wrapped chains whipping through the air. Sleet dove to avoid the slashing strike of a stained talon as Erebus threw himself in the opposite direction. Sleet heard teeth snap dangerously close to his body and he scrambled forward, clambering on hands and knees through the mud.   
  
Okay. So maybe that moment of confidence had been a little unwarranted.   
  
Flashes of green illuminated the buildings. Erebus was using more of that flame, but it wasn’t enough to kill the beast.   
  
“I can’t get close enough!” Erebus shouted as Sleet climbed to his feet, only to duck to avoid another swinging chain. “I need a distraction!”   
  
Right. A distraction. Pfft. Not happening.   
  
“You got a plan?” Sleet bellowed, pressing himself flat against a building as the chimaera’s thrashing pulled another limb free. Claws raked across the ground, tearing huge furrows in the thick mud.   
  
Erebus didn’t answer. Or if he did, Sleet didn’t hear him, only a strong whoosh of air before a flailing tail slammed into his body, throwing him against a vendor’s stall. Sleet crashed into the wood, felt it splinter beneath him, and all the air was knocked out of his body.  
  
He couldn’t move, not for several long moments. He couldn’t see, couldn’t seem to draw a breath. He could smell and taste his own blood on the air.   
  
He heard Erebus shout dimly, but Sleet’s ears were ringing. He forced himself up, feeling the splinters of wood through his clothing. Sleet shook his head, trying to stop his mind from spinning, his vision from wobbling. He really wasn’t cut out for this hero shit.   
  
The chimaera roared. The sound of crumbling rock filled the night. And a feeling like the cold of death crept over Sleet’s flesh.   
  
“Sleet!”   
  
He looked up, up and up, further still, to the beady eyes of the chimaera gleaming down at him. As though Sleet were the only prey that could satisfy the beast’s hunger. Chains hung from various portions of the chimaera’s body, some of its limbs still trapped. And Sleet just stared at it dumbly, wondering why he couldn’t seem to move.   
  
There was a flash of silver in the night, outlined by a fierce, greenish haze. Erebus. His power swirling around him with enough force that Sleet felt it, tickling across his skin.   
  
The chimaera roared and lunged at Sleet, brought up short by the chains that rattled ominously. Buildings creaked, wood and stone shuddered. Teeth snapped several feet away from Sleet, but the beast dove forward again, again and again, throwing its weight against the length of the chains. Desperate to be free. Desperate to make itself a snack of a thief.   
  
Another flash of metal, this one from above. A growl, human this time, and then a body landed atop the chimaera’s. Sleet gaped as Raven appeared out of fucking nowhere, giant sword in hand. He moved with more balance and agility than Sleet would have expected of the mercenary, climbing up the chimaera’s sinuous neck and aiming straight for the head.   
  
Erebus skittered to a stop in front of Sleet, scythe whipping through the air, forcing the startled chimaera a step back. It keened, head tossing from side to side in order to dislodge its unwelcome rider. Raven rode those movements with the keen skill of someone who had spent a lot of time astride a horse, his gloved grip firmly attached to one of the spikes on the chimaera’s spine.   
  
Power surged through the air, stealing Sleet’s breath. He pushed himself to his feet, awed as green flame exploded against the front of the chimaera’s chest. Scales sizzled and the odor of scorched flesh thickened in the air. The chimaera stumbled, away from the heat of the fire, its head turned away.   
  
It never saw the strike coming.   
  
Quick as a flash, Raven’s sword neatly severed the chimaera’s head.   
  
For a moment, the head hung, and then it dropped to the ground with a dull thump, blood spurting from the stump. The body remained standing for several seconds longer until it crumpled like a stack of cards, landing with an earth-rattling thud.   
  
Sleet stared, one hand clamped on his injured shoulder as Erebus shook his hand, dispelling the green flame. Erebus’ face was grim, his pale fingers curled around his scythe as he lowered it from battle-ready to battle-weary.   
  
“Why is it that I’m always saving your ass?” Raven grumbled, dropping down from the massive corpse. His sword dripped thick, almost mucous-like blood to the rain-soaked earth.   
  
Sleet glared. “It was a lucky blow,” he argued, eyes narrowing. “One you stole from Erebus, I might add.”   
  
Raven’s single eye flicked to the aforementioned deity. “He finally consented I take it?”  
  
“It’s remarkable what a life-threatening situation will bring about,” Erebus said with a smirk, one that Raven echoed.   
  
Sleet was not appreciative of the fact they seemed to get along. “If you don’t mind, I’d like a healer now,” he growled, heat pulsing through his body in rhythmic intervals. “Before I die.”   
  
“You won’t die,” Erebus said, shaking his head. He flicked his wrist and his scythe disappeared in a flicker of magic. “Not with the bond fully active.”   
  
“That chimaera put a hole through my shoulder!” Sleet snarled, gritting his teeth.   
  
“With its stinger?” Raven asked, looking at the wound with interest. “And you’re not dead?”   
  
“I’m sure it must be a disappointment for you,” Sleet snapped and hauled himself back to his feet, though the motion made his head spin. He wondered how much blood he had lost. And why his awakened bond with Erebus didn’t seem to have any benefits. What good was a deity in his head if Erebus couldn’t even amp up Sleet’s abilities?   
  
Raven said nothing, but the appraising look he gave Sleet was full of amusement. He wiped off his blade and returned the massive sword to its sheath, as though the cooling chimaera corpse behind him were an everyday thing.   
  
Erebus’ hand gripped Sleet’s shoulder, steadying him when Sleet started to sway on his feet. “Easy,” the demi-deity murmured, keeping Sleet upright with no visible effort.   
  
Heat flushed Sleet’s body. It felt like he were on fire. His thoughts bounced around in his head, uncertain and disconnected. “I don’t feel so good,” he mumbled.   
  
“Damn it,” Erebus cursed, throwing Sleet’s arm over his shoulder. “Where the hell are Alaris and Hephaestion?”  
  
Whatever Raven answered, Sleet didn’t hear it. He felt something pulling at him from the inside, dragging into the center of his being. He gasped for breath, body flushing hot and cold. He shivered and then he burned and then – darkness.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
Raven rolled his eyes when he caught sight of the damned thief passing out in his anima’s arms. Was there no limit to the brat’s uselessness?   
  
“Well?” Erebus prompted with a note of frustration, turning worried eyes onto Sleet. Granted, blood was streaming from the thief’s shoulder but they still spent too much time coddling Sleet. Raven was damn certain of that.   
  
He shoved a thumb over his shoulder. “About twelve alleys that way,” Raven answered, turning his back on Sleet and his anima and circling the chimaera’s corpse. It was the largest he’d ever seen. How had Frost been able to tame it?  
  
“I could use some help here!” Erebus said through clenched teeth, struggling with the thief’s weight.   
  
Raven rolled his eye. “You’re a demi-deity. Shouldn’t you be stronger than the average human?” he demanded, stalking toward the animum pair and throwing an arm around Sleet’s slim waist. He really was more like a girl.   
  
“We are powerful in different ways,” Erebus answered as though that explained everything. Not that Raven was looking for an in-depth clarification. His eye crossed at the mere thought of it.   
  
“Whatever.” Raven grunted his assent and looked around, trying to get his bearings.   
  
It hadn’t been difficult to find Sleet considering that the damn fool seemed to attract trouble like honey attracted bees. It was like there was a sign stamped on the thief’s forehead. _I am helpless. Please, come torture me_ or some bullshit like that. And like it or not, Raven seemed to have an equally annoying sign stamped on his forehead that read _I am here for nothing more than to save the attractive backside of an useless thief._  
  
And damn it, he hated when his sarcastic thoughts took on a decidedly unwelcome turn. Yeah, sure, Sleet wasn’t that bad to look at. If Raven squinted with his remaining eye. Sleet was hard, but soft in all the right places, and there was a certain cant to his stubbornness that could be admired. Yet, the thief was also spineless, bullheaded, and annoying – all traits which Raven found loathsome.   
  
Not to mention the stupid thief was in love with the man Raven had sworn to kill and didn’t seem willing to admit that his boyfriend was a deranged psychopath. Which suggested all was not well in Sleet’s head either. That was just Raven’s opinion, however, and Alaris never seemed too amenable to accepting it as truth. But what did she know? She just wanted to use Sleet for his connection to Erebus.   
  
Che. And they thought Raven to be the cruel and insensitive one. At least he was honest in his intentions.   
  
“That’s some serious thinking over there,” Erebus remarked, much to Raven’s annoyance. He hoped that Sleet’s demi-deity would be far more useful than the thief himself.   
  
“Not really,” Raven muttered and directed Erebus to a nearby alley. “Take that. We can loop around and meet up with Alaris a few blocks over.”   
  
A black eyebrow arched. “How do you know this city so well?”   
  
“I don’t. I just have good instincts.”   
  
Erebus inclined his head. “Ah. The senses of a hunter. So I see.”   
  
Shrugging, Raven tried to focus on their destination and not Sleet’s weight dangling from his side, leaving drops of blood in their wake. The thief was badly injured and Sleet wasn’t even aware of the full extent of it. Raven would keep that to himself though. Let Sleet suffer a bit. It wouldn’t kill him. Just embarrass the hell out of him.   
  
Raven navigated Erebus and himself through the darkened streets of Nename. Luckily, Erebus didn’t attempt to draw Raven into any more conversation, leaving them with a wonderful silence.   
  
It wasn’t until they neared where Raven had left Alaris and the others that he felt the prickle dance up his spine, making him shiver. Raven drew to a halt, forcing Erebus to stop as well. He hadn’t heard anything, but he had never been one to doubt his instincts either. There was something or someone out there. Not dangerous, perhaps, but definitely watching them.   
  
He unhooked his arm from Sleet’s side, forcing Erebus to take all of the thief’s weight, and turned, peering into the dark night. The road was still and silent, not a single torch lighting the streets. The rain had ended but the cold lingered, clouds hiding the moon until there was little illumination to work with. But Raven didn’t need any light. His instincts were enough.   
  
“What is it?” Erebus asked. At least he had enough sense to keep his voice soft.   
  
Raven shook his head, peering behind them. The shifting shadows refused to cooperate. “I’m not sure,” he said, that eerie feeling creeping up his spine again. “Something’s out there.”   
  
“A threat?”   
  
“I don’t think so.” No, Raven didn’t feel any murderous intent in the air. It didn’t taste of malice or anger. Curiosity perhaps.   
  
He stared for several moments longer into the darkness. But either their stalker was being cautious or Raven had been imagining things. He was more inclined to believe the former. Raven had never once been given reason to doubt his instincts. They had always served him true, with such accuracy that it seemed supernatural.   
  
If only he had listened to them years ago...   
  
Frowning, Raven moved back to the animum duo and helped Erebus with his burden once more. “Whoever it is, we’ll find out sooner or later.”   
  
“That doesn’t exactly give me a swell of confidence,” Erebus said dryly.   
  
Raven ignored him. Not a difficult task, all things considered, and he enjoyed the temporary silence as they slipped down back alleyways and found themselves on the edge of a wide sphere of destruction. Though he had seen it before, Raven still couldn’t get over how deathly quiet and still it was here. There was a sense that more had been destroyed than just buildings and the human lives that had been lost.   
  
On the other side of Sleet’s unconscious weight, Erebus sucked in a breath. “It feels dead here,” he said.   
  
Strange, because that was the same impression Raven had gotten. Now, it was more or less confirmed by a demi-deity. He wasn’t sure if he should be impressed with himself, or a little worried of the direction this war was taking.   
  
In Raven’s absence, Alaris, Tungsten, and their respective deities had finished pulling Iblion and Ashur from the wreckage and moved them to a clear spot on the ground. Ashur appeared unconscious, but Iblion was perched on a piece of broken building, staring out into the distance.   
  
Asclepius noticed their arrival first, bouncing up to Raven and his shared burden with energy that Raven only wished he could duplicate. If he could bottle that enthusiasm and market it, Raven would never wish for coin again. Not that coin was high on his list of priorities.   
  
“Thank Asherah!” Asclepius breathed, her bright eyes – Like rubies, Raven thought – darkening with concern. “You’re alive. Or close to it. Is he…?”  
  
“Just unconscious,” Erebus said with a long, lingering look to the bubbly demi-deity.   
  
Their eyes met and had Raven been a poet, he would have described their exchange of glances as something marked with flying rose petals, screeching harps, and angels singing. Or something. But Raven wasn’t a poet, so he thought they just stared at each other like a couple of gaping fish, flipping and twisting but getting nowhere at all.   
  
Raven grunted, hefting Sleet’s unconscious body into view and pulling a soft moan from the thief. “He’s heavy,” Raven said, and all but dumped Sleet into the waiting arms of Erebus and Asclepius. Let the deities handle the pest. They were the ones that wanted Sleet in the first place.   
  
“You’re hurt,” Asclepius said, frowning as she inspected Erebus, hands on his shoulders, turning him this way and that.   
  
Raven sniffed, but kept his comments to himself. Erebus was barely singed, with a single bleeding cut on one of his arms. Hardly the sort of wound to be concerned about. But Erebus let Asclepius fuss over him anyway, wrapping bandages procured from who knows where around the small slice. There was something going on there, something more than just friendly inter-deity relationships. But Raven’s brain was going to break if he delved too deeply, so he kept to himself.   
  
“Any news on Adair?” Raven asked, finding his own piece of debris to perch on as he watched Alaris and Hephaestion frown over Sleet’s newest injury.   
  
No wonder the thief didn’t want to fight. He clearly sucked at battle. And even the most basics of defending himself. Hell, the bumbling sorcerer was doing better than Sleet. Speaking of which, Tungsten had joined Alaris and Hephaesion in hovering worriedly over Sleet.   
  
“Is he going to be okay?” Tungsten asked, fretting, all but chewing his fingernails.   
  
Alaris shook her head as she tore off Sleet’s tunic, revealing a pale chest mottled with the beginnings of deep bruises and pierced in several places by pieces of broken wood. Small, jagged bits, though, and nothing long enough to stab something vitally important to the thief’s functions. Pity.   
  
“He’s alive,” Iblion answered before Alaris could get the words out, his voice hoarse. Dead. The voice of someone who had lost an important person and didn’t know how to recover from such tragedy. “But he’s not here.”  
  
“Our best guess is that Balaam took him,” Alaris added, blowing a piece of hair out of her face as she extracted pieces of wood from Sleet’s flesh while Hephaestion covered the thief in a healing aura. Something to seal the wounds, if not help them heal faster. “Though why, we’re not sure.”   
  
Raven frowned, dragging out his sword and polishing cloth to give his twitching fingers something to focus on. “He’s never taken prisoners before. Balaam’s been about killing, not kidnapping.”   
  
“I know. That’s why we don’t have an answer,” Alaris agreed, and bent back to her task.   
  
Sleet was in no danger of dying, but infection could set in quickly, especially with the chimaera’s sting. The venom wouldn’t kill Sleet, but the discomfort it would arouse within him would be amusing for Raven to watch.   
  
Raven gestured toward Iblion with his cloth before lowering the fabric back to his blade, wiping off lingering traces of blood. “If Adair’s with Balaam, then why is he still here? I thought you said demi-deities couldn’t appear in mortal form without some sort of anchor.”   
  
“Adair and Ashur are twins,” Asclepius chimed in, finally done pampering Erebus as she bounced toward them and perched on her own piece of rock. “Maybe that has something to do with it.”   
  
“Perhaps,” Hephaestion agreed as a bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. “This is only the second time in recorded history that an animus has been chosen from twins, but back then, only one of the sisters had been an animus.”   
  
“Why not the other?” Tungsten asked.   
  
Hephaestion shrugged. “That is a question you will have to ask Aesir. We may appear to be closest to him, but we can’t even begin to understand his motives.”   
  
Raven snorted to himself. A perfectly useless non-answer. Deities were known for spitting those, so Raven didn’t know why he was surprised. Still, where did that leave them? Less one anima. Less one animum. And plus a mismatched pair. And of course, they had to be stuck with the least athletic of the two.   
  
Silence fell across the group, the various mortals and immortals locked in their own thoughts. Hephaestion and Alaris continued to work on Sleet, the thief gradually becoming so wrapped in bandages they’d hardly need to find him another shirt. That one shoulder was taking a damn good beating. Raven wondered if there’d ever be any use for Sleet out of it again. Not that he cared or anything.   
  
The quiet was getting to Raven. Normally, he preferred it to insane babble, but this silence was too heavy, filled with emotions and anxiety. Adair’s disappearance had clearly rattled them all. Raven wondered if they’d forgotten the part where this was a war. Such things were to be expected.   
  
Clearing his throat noisily, Raven made a big show of tucking away his cloth and sliding his sword back into its sheath. “We can’t stay here,” he said.  
  
“There’s no reason to anyway. Not anymore,” Alaris agreed and sat back, using the heel of her palm to push more escaped hair out of her face. Her fingers were spattered with Sleet’s blood. “We should leave tonight.”   
  
“And go where?” Tungsten asked from where he was perched next to Ashur’s unconscious body as though standing guard over the twin.   
  
“North,” Hephaestion answered, and the slight buzz of magic on the edge of Raven’s senses faded as he pulled back his power from healing Sleet. The thief would have to heal the rest on his own.  
  
Raven’s brow arched. “North? That’s the best you have? An undefined north?”   
  
The deity looked tired, more lines etched into his aging face. “I cannot pin down the animus that I sense. One moment, he flares brighter than the south star. The next moment, he disappears completely. I cannot tell if it is because he is shielded by his anima, or if he is fighting the bond.”   
  
Raven slid down from his rock, stretching kinks in his muscles. “Probably the latter. It seems to be the common reaction to one of your so-called gifts.”   
  
He ignored the resulting glare that the three conscious demi-deities shot his direction.   
  
Alaris sighed and rose to her feet, her clothes streaked with blood and ash and dirt, like the rest of them. “Let’s just retrieve our belongings and leave Nename before anyone notices, shall we?”   
  
Thankfully, no one argued.   
  


* * * *


	22. Wolf in the Fold - Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolf in the Fold (Nine Parts) -- Questions stack upon questions as Sleet and his barely-allied group of companions head further north, seeking out the last animus before Balaam can find them.

Pain. When Ashur pulled himself out of the darkness, the first thing he registered was pain. All over his body. In his legs and arms, throbbing out through his skull. A dry, chalky taste in his mouth, the feeling of not drinking anything for hours. Being parched and wrung out. Something deep inside of him ached, like a knife stabbing right through him, over and over.  
  
He moaned, and even that came out hoarse and scratchy. Stuttering. Ashur tried to lift his hand, to rub his fingers over his forehead, but his arms were pinned to his sides. It took more effort than it should have to peel his eyes open and at first, the world was a grey and black and brown blur.  
  
He was moving. Ashur felt the sway of being on horseback, as well as hearing the steady sounds of horse hooves. There was warmth at his back, and voices around him, but the bite of the wind on his face was harsh and cold. Nipping. Something wet fluttered against his cheeks. Snow?  
  
“I see that you are awake,” a voice rumbled behind him, rich with amusement, but also very tired, very worn.  
  
Ashur couldn’t turn to look, not with his entire body bound by something. His fingers stretched out, touching. Cloth? Was he wrapped in a blanket?  
  
“Where… am I?” Ashur asked, or croaked rather, his mind spinning and fuzzy.  
  
He was missing something. Or he had forgotten something. Ashur wasn’t sure which. Or what it was. But he was damn sure he was missing something. And his chest hurt so much, right behind his solar plexus, as though someone had punched him there.  
  
“On the road to Shadowglade.”  
  
The voice sounded familiar, or echoed with familiarity at any rate. Ashur wished his vision would sharpen, give him something clearer than hazy blurs. His head was pounding and he closed his eyes again, trying to breathe slowly. He could feel his heart picking up, could feel it throbbing in his chest. He felt on the verge of going a little crazy without knowing why.  
  
… What was he missing?  
  
His memories, just as fuzzy as his surroundings, started to sharpen as Ashur sifted through them. He looked for hints and clues. Yelling and danger and screaming and terror. Fight for his life from the shadows and what the hell? Adair!  
  
Ashur gasped. His eyes snapped open. “Adair!” he said, wriggling around in his seat as he tried to force his body free of its cottony confines. “Where’s Adair?”  
  
A hand settled on his thigh, ridiculously strong, holding him in place. “I don’t know,” the voice said, thick with regret. Worry. Fingers clenching briefly on Ashur’s thigh. “By Asherah, I don’t know. None of us do.”  
  
It caught up then. The past with the present, flashing to life in Ashur’s mind as though he’d been a broken clock that only needed winding. Ashur gasped and hunched over as memories peppered his mind, bringing with them pain and fear and despair.  
  
Adair was shouting and Fafnir was stuck in his grip, clasped by Balaam’s claws and unable to break free. Or was it Frost and his fingers? Adair couldn’t be sure. But the man, the enemy was grinning, teeth too white and bright in the darkness. Iblion was on the ground, gasping like a man who had been punched in the solar plexus, and power sizzled in the air, tingling over Ashur’s skin.  
  
Ashur remembered screaming, remembered a harsh feeling in his chest, like someone had torn his heart out. Iblion scrambling to his feet as Adair shouted, and then a hard body slamming into Ashur’s own. He remembered Adair throwing himself at the Balaam and Frost amalgam as if attempting to stop the crazed deity’s magic. And then, there was a feeling like none other ripping through Ashur. Like being swallowed by darkness.  
  
In the present, Ashur felt himself gripping onto the saddlehorn as he choked on sounds that mixed gasps with crying with growls of rage. “He’s dead,” Ashur moaned brokenly. “Adair’s dead.”  
  
The grip on his thigh tightened, to the point of pain. “No, he’s not,” Iblion growled fiercely, sounding two steps away from shaking Ashur pointedly. “I would know it. Just as sure as you can feel Fafnir's absence. Your brother is not dead.”  
  
“He might as well be,” Ashur said, in a voice barely above a whisper, that growing sense of something missing gaining a stronger foothold inside of him. “Balaam took him.”  
  
“You remember that?”  
  
Ashur would have shaken his head, but it hurt too much already and so he settled for closing his eyes and trying to ignore the way his body swayed in the saddle. “Bits and pieces,” he said. “Fafnir… he’s dead, isn’t he?”  
  
“We do not die like you humans,” Iblion answered. “But yes, Fafnir is no longer of our world.”  
  
As though the simple confirmation were cue, Ashur felt something twinge inside his chest once more. A gripping pain that made him suck in a breath and struggle against an overwhelming feeling of loss. Sadness swept over Ashur, and hotness banked behind his eyelids, as he fought both off by closing his eyes.  
  
“Somehow, I knew it,” Ashur murmured. He’d left something behind, something vitally important was missing, and he had the feeling, it was Fafnir. There was something inside of Ashur that called to the place where Fafnir should have been. “Why am I alive? Why did Balaam let me live?”  
  
Iblion sighed softly. “We don’t know. We don’t even have a guess.” The deity’s tone tightened with anger. “Balaam’s motives remain a mystery.”  
  
Ashur’s shoulders slumped. Questions on top of questions, without an answer to ease the worry that coiled in his heart. Adair wasn’t dead, but that didn’t mean Balaam wasn’t going to kill him. Feelings of uselessness crashed over Ashur. He hadn’t been able to do anything when Adair was taken and Heimdal was killed. And without Heimdal, Ashur couldn’t do anything now either.  
  
Biting his lower lip, Ashur glanced around, noticing that he and Iblion were not alone. He hadn’t expected them to be, but now had visual confirmation of that fact. The rest of their motley group was riding in various locations around him.  
  
Alaris was at the front of the pack, conversing quietly with the red-haired mage whose name Ashur couldn’t remember at the moment. Two horses followed along after the two, empty of their riders. And behind Ashur was the scowling mercenary who didn’t seem too pleased at having to share his horse with another person. Sleet was unconscious, his face pale as he sagged in Raven’s one armed hold.  
  
One man unconscious. One man missing. A deity destroyed. Ashur barely conscious himself.  
  
They hadn’t done so well against Balaam, had they? And yet, they were expected to save the entire world? Ashur couldn’t help his pessimism, even as his brother’s words of courage and duty and honor floated in the back of Ashur’s mind. This dissimilar team of mismatched abilities was supposed to stop a mad deity? Ashur failed to see how that was even possible.  
  
“You’re still here,” Ashur said, straightening as he felt some of his strength return to his body. There was a sensation of being dragged down and his limbs weren’t quite responding as they should have, but he no longer felt like the living dead. “I didn’t know that the deities could remain so long.”  
  
“So long as our animus is nearby, we can stay in your mortal plane as long as necessary. This, however, is a unique case. We have all agreed that until we understand how I can exist while separate from Adair, I will remain in the mortal plane,” Iblion explained, sounding relieved at the mundane topic.  
  
Ashur twitched in the confines of the blanket and started to work himself from the thick wrapping, wanting his arms free to move. “There aren’t any discomforts in doing so?”  
  
Iblion was silent for a moment as though considering Ashur’s question, letting the noises of the horses and quiet conversation fill the space between them.  
  
“There may be some discomfort,” Iblion admitted. “But nothing I cannot endure. However, I don’t know how much help I may be should a battle find us.”  
  
“More than me, I can guarantee that,” Ashur muttered, but he wasn’t sure it was loud enough for the deity to hear him, and he redirected. “How long until Shadowglade?”  
  
“We are near,” Iblion answered and there was a creak as the deity shifted behind Ashur. “Get some rest, Ashur. You are still weak from Fafnir's loss.”  
  
Ashur didn’t fail to catch the hesitation in Iblion’s words. “Is this normal?” he asked, voice little more than a whisper as another wave of fatigue and loss swept over him, making his eyes prick with wet hotness.  
  
Ashur clenched his fists, struggling to contain himself. He felt out of control and off balance. As though there were forces inside of him, swaying back and forth like a pendulum, shifting and shifting without giving him chance to rest.  
  
“I would not know,” Iblion said. His hand slid from Ashur’s thigh back to the reins. “Rest now.”  
  
In other words, Iblion didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Not that Ashur couldn’t blame him. He was desperate to know about Adair, but a part of him was worried what answers might be given. He almost didn’t want to know, as though remaining in ignorance would allow that small and dangerous piece of hope to exist.  
  
Clamping his mouth shut, Ashur tried to ignore the strange squirming inside himself and burrowed back into the blankets. He was used to the cold, true, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. The snow was quiet, soft as it fell around them, a few flakes touching on his nose.  
  
Ashur closed his eyes, willing himself to be lulled by the motion of the horse and the heat that Iblion practically radiated behind him. The deity smelled of rainclouds and thunderstorms, of water and wind mixed together. Ashur felt a strange kinship with Iblion, a soothing sensation that calmed some of the raging torrent of Ashur’s emotions.  
  
Exhaustion overcame him.  
  


  
o0o0o

  
Sleet woke to silence, stiffness, and darkness. He stared, blinking, trying to force vision into his eyes, and wished that he could move. Only his body didn’t seem to want to obey his commands. His fingers refused to twitch. His heart seemed to have adopted a rhythm of its own, pulsing hard and fast, pumping heat through every vein and into every limb.  
  
“Am I dead?” he wondered aloud, and was startled when a throaty chuckle echoed from the darkness around him.  
  
The inky black began to lighten, as though someone was approaching his position with a lamp or torch.  
  
“Well, this isn’t the afterlife,” a voice answered, and Sleet had heard that voice too often in the back of his mind not to recognize its owner.  
  
He sighed, closing his eyes in resignation. “Erebus,” Sleet muttered, feeling an urge to knock his head against a harsh surface that didn’t exist. “What the hell is going on?”  
  
“I’ve pulled you into Tartarus. For your own safety,” the deity replied and Sleet felt a presence at his side. Magic washed over Sleet, making his skin prickle, and the sensation of floating endlessly shifted to a feeling of lying on something firm but soft, like a bed.  
  
“My own safety?”  
  
Erebus’ voice was filled with amusement. “Fighting a chimaera is no easy task. Especially when some mortal is foolish enough to value his pride more than his life.”  
  
“What good is my life when it belongs to something else?” Sleet retorted and opened his eyes again.  
  
This time, however, he wasn’t greeted with darkness but the familiar surroundings of Erebus’ home. Or what the deity had named his home anyway. Sleet more likened it to a mindscape since he wasn’t physically there. Which meant he was actually unconscious somewhere. Lovely.  
  
It wasn’t actually a bed beneath him, but a couch, and Sleet’s head was resting on a pillow. He sat up, grimacing when the motion pulled at wounds that had transferred with him despite this being a mindscape.  
  
Erebus snorted, coming into view from where he was seated at a desk, one covered in books and papers. He was leafing through one book in particular, a thick one with a leather binding, though Sleet couldn’t make out the title from his position.  
  
“You’re not losing any of your free will,” Erebus said, flipping a page in his book. “How many times do I have to tell you this before it penetrates your thick skull?”  
  
“As many times as it takes,” Sleet retorted and looked down at himself, at the bandages that seemed to swallow his entire torso and make his right shoulder immobile. If he so much as flexed the muscles in that arm, shooting pain rippled through his entire body.  
  
Erebus growled low in his throat. “Don’t move. This might only be a dreamworld, but it still hurts like reality.”  
  
“I noticed,” Sleet said, and forced himself back against the couch cushions. “How long do I have to stay here?”  
  
“Until you wake up,” Erebus answered, never looking away from whatever was so interesting in his book. He sounded stressed, annoyed, and at more than Sleet’s usual stubbornness.  
  
Sleet sighed and rolled his head against the couch cushion behind him, trying to ignore the way the motion pulled at muscles in his neck and sent light stabs of pain through his side. “What are you reading?”  
  
“A book.”  
  
“On what?”  
  
“Bestiary,” Erebus snapped, obviously wishing for quiet. Too bad Sleet wasn’t interested in sitting there in silence, waiting for himself to wake up.  
  
He gave Erebus a blank look, demanding that the deity clarify.  
  
Erebus let out a soft whoosh of air, marked his page with an uninked quill, and turned in his chair. “You were stabbed by a chimaera,” he said, one pale hand gesturing. “For some reason, Raven finds this amusing. I’m trying to figure out why.”  
  
“Other than the obvious? That he takes great delight in my pain and humiliation?” Sleet said, rolling his eyes.  
  
Erebus huffed and turned back toward his book, ancient chair creaking beneath him. “Yes. And contrary to popular belief, I don’t have infinite knowledge. I am only a demi-deity after all.”  
  
“Ohhhh. Does that mean you’re not all powerful?” Sleet asked.  
  
“I can sense your sarcasm, Sleet. It’s not amusing,” Erebus said, raking a hand through his dark hair as he flipped another page with a frustrated movement. How kind of him to care so much for Sleet’s well-being.  
  
Sleet smirked, leaning back into the sofa and rubbing a hand over his thrice-abused shoulder. “I thought it was.” Heat flushed his body and Sleet felt himself sway; he closed his eyes. The room was spinning again. “Any idea what’s wrong with me?”  
  
“Aside from the obvious?”  
  
Sleet couldn’t dredge up retaliation. That took more energy than he had to spare. He peeled open his eyes. Erebus was engrossed in his reading, paging carefully through the book.  
  
Something tugged at Sleet’s mid-section, something inside of him, pulling backward. Like a hand had reached into his solar plexus and tried yanking him out past his spinal cord. He gasped, world graying on the edges. His uninjured arm slapped against the couch, hand digging into the plump cushion.  
  
“What the hell is that?”  
  
Erebus shoved himself away from the desk. “Someone’s trying to wake you.”  
  
“Why?” Sleet demanded, and grit his teeth when another fierce yank sent a stab of pain through his body. His shoulder burned where the chimaera had pierced it, and the heat flushing through him increased in intensity, until it felt as if his skin was on fire.  
  
The deity cocked his head to the side. “You’ve been here too long. They’re right.” He lifted a hand, splayed fingers hovering inches before Sleet’s forehead.  
  
“Too long! It’s been like ten minutes!” Sleet argued, drawing in a ragged breath. He felt like he was looking at Erebus from the far end of a tunnel, even though the deity’s fingers were mere inches in front of him.  
  
“It only seems that short.” Erland frowned, concern replacing the humor in his eyes. “Time passes differently here.”  
  
That concept flew completely over Sleet’s head. He gaped at his anima, questions trying to spill from his lips, but another sharp hook through his innards made stars dance behind his eyes. Sleet choked on his next breath and watched as Erebus brushed his fingers across Sleet’s forehead, a bare touch that felt as if it thrust Sleet backward, propelling him into an inky night.  
  
He fell and fell, tumbling head over heels, as the sight of Erebus’ study and Erebus completely vanished. Sleet’s arms pinwheeled and his cries locked in his throat, free falling until that tugging feeling suddenly yanked him sideways. Sleet slammed into something warm, giving, welcoming. Familiar.  
  
 _‘Wake up_ ,” Erebus said, his voice a whisper around Sleet, sounding like it came from within the thief as opposed to his ears.  
  
And for once, Sleet obeyed.  
  
Sleet woke to the sight of green eyes staring intently into his face. Startled, he jerked back, and hissed when the abrupt motion pulled on every wound in his body, sending shocks of pain rippling through him.  
  
“Be still, Sleet-san,” Tungsten chastised, his hands resting on Sleet’s shoulders and giving him a gentle push back down. “You’ll open your wounds.”  
  
Sleet sucked in a labored breath. “Easy for you to say,” he griped, reclining back against what felt to be his bed roll. Blankets over his lower limbs further hampered his movements.  
  
Tungsten backed out of his immediate sight, giving Sleet the chance to look around. It was nearly night, the sun a mere suggestion along the horizon as stars peeked out of the darkening sky. He saw the rest of his motley companions scattered around a blazing campfire, wise considering that the ambient temperature was cold enough to see your breath. Next to the fire, however, Sleet was rather toasty. He could feel sweat trickling down his back and he knew his face was flushed.  
  
“Where are we?” Sleet asked, his voice little more than a crack. He didn’t recognize his immediate surroundings. It was too dark to see much of anything.  
  
“Shadowglade,” Tungsten answered from where he sat at Sleet’s side, mixing something that steamed in a bowl. “Or on the edges of it anyway. Raven-san refused to camp in the woods.”  
  
Sleet looked at the large trees to his right, stretching high to the heavens. He’d only ever seen Shadowglade at a distance before and he’d never realized just how tall the greywood were. Their long branches swayed noiselessly in the wind and were shadowed by the dark, bearing all sorts of unsavory things to Sleet’s imagination.  
  
“Is it dangerous?” Sleet asked.  
  
“Depends.”  
  
“On what?”  
  
Tungsten shrugged. “On the story you’re telling.” He knelt at Sleet’s side, pushing aside Sleet’s tunic to examine the thrice-bandaged wound on his shoulder. “Some say it’s haunted. Some say once you enter you can never leave. And others say that the forest is alive, that the trees move and speak.” Green eyes turned bright, filled with enthusiasm. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful to see?”  
  
Sleet sighed, and tried not to flinch as Tungsten prodded at the healing wound. “Tungsten, you have no sense of self-preservation.”  
  
Tungsten blinked in naïve confusion.  
  
Better for Sleet's sanity to change the subject. “How long was I out?”  
  
“Two days. Asclepius told us about what Erebus was doing, but Hephaestion-san said it wasn’t a good idea for a human to stay long in dreamscape.” Tungsten grinned then. “By the way, Alaris-san is pretty happy that you finally accepted Erebus.”  
  
“Peachy,” Sleet drawled. “My day is complete now that I have pleased Alaris.”  
  
Tungsten laughed, but just as quickly sobered. “Though that’s probably the only good news we have.” The mage patted Sleet’s bandages back in place. “Adair is missing. Fafnir's gone. And Ashur’s in no better shape than you.”  
  
“You know, every time we face Balaam, we lose,” Sleet said, and shifted on his bedroll, desperate to be doing something other than lying on his back. Pain lanced through his body, but Sleet gritted his teeth and fought through it, struggling to sit up. “It makes me wonder why those damn deities think we stand a chance.”  
  
Hands rushed to support Sleet, helping him to sit up. “You shouldn’t talk like that, Sleet-san,” Tungsten admonished. “You make it sound like we shouldn’t bother with hope.”  
  
Hope. Sleet snorted at the idea of it, but refrained from doing so in front of Tungsten. The mage was ridiculously optimistic and Sleet didn’t feel like being on the receiving end of a preachy speech about wishing for a happy future.  
  
“Tell me what I missed,” Sleet said with an appraising sweep of their campsite.  
  
Iblion was the only deity present, sharing a log with Ashur and hovering close to the kid. Ashur looked awful – his eyes sunken, his face pale, his body hunched under a thick blanket as he cupped a steaming bowl of something which was possibly dinner. The two were talking, only their upper bodies visible over the flames of the campfire separating them from Sleet.  
  
Near enough to eavesdrop, Raven was polishing and honing his blade, as though it had suddenly managed to dull itself in the last hour or so. Above him, Karasu perched on the branch of a tree, possibly asleep. In much the same manner, Alaris was curled up in her bed roll against a log, head pillowed on her arm, fast asleep.  
  
Thank Asherah. Sleet was saved from listening to another one of her lectures.  
  
 _But not from one of mine._  
  
The thief groaned. _‘It’s bad enough that I have to suffer your presence when I’m unconscious but can’t I get a moment’s peace to myself for once?’_  
  
Sleet could practically hear Erebus roll his eyes. _You may have accepted me but you don’t know how to utilize our bond yet. If you hope to defeat—  
  
‘Defeat?’ _Sleet huffed. _‘We’re lucky we’re all alive. Frankly, I don’t know why Balaam hasn’t managed to wipe us out.’  
  
Are you that eager for death?  
  
‘By Aesir, no!’_ Sleet exclaimed, horrified. _‘But you can’t tell me I’m the only one who sees this either. Balaam’s kicking our ass and I’m hard pressed to believe that’s going to change in the future.’_  
  
“Sleet-san?”  
  
Sleet shook his head, focusing on Tungsten. “Sorry. Just arguing with Erebus. What did you say?”  
  
“He was talking about Adair.” Raven said, though Sleet didn't remember inviting him into this conversation. “You know, from the whole battle you missed out on.”  
  
Sleet twisted his jaw. “I was a little busy fighting a chimaera in case you’ve forgotten.”  
  
“Ah, yes, I remember that,” Raven said and his palms settled on the flat of his blade. “I remember seeing you about to die – again -- until my sword saved your worthless ass – again. If I’d known Alaris had hired me to be your personal bodyguard, I might have thought twice about signing up.”  
  
Anger flushed through him. Sleet tensed, but sore muscles protested the motion with sharp stabs of pain and he forced himself to relax.  
  
“No one asked for your help,” Sleet retorted, fighting off a wave of accompanying heat by pushing off a few blanket layers. “What happened with Adair?” He addressed Tungsten directly, hoping Raven would get the message and go the fuck away.  
  
“Balaam took him,” Tungsten said, his eyes darting back and forth between Raven and Sleet as though watching some stage comedy. “Killed Fafnir and took Adair though no one really knows why.” His expression softened at a glance toward the remaining twin. “Ashur’s pretty upset.”  
  
Sleet had never been close to his own brothers, but he imagined it was a lot different for twins. No wonder Ashur looked like hell warmed over. He must be worried sick.  
  
A sharp sound filled the night, startling both Sleet and Tungsten. A bird, or maybe a bat, burst from the canopy of the forest, hooting loudly.  
  
Raven was on his feet in an instant, and above him, Karasu cawed and took off, the opposite direction of the fleeing avian. Raven's nostrils flared and he peered into the darkness of the forest, hand wrapped around the hilt of his broadsword.  
  
“What is it, Raven-san?” Tungsten asked.  
  
Raven didn’t answer. He stalked into the forest without a word, bushes rustling in his wake.  
  
Sleet rolled his eyes, kicking out his feet to dislodge the rest of his blankets. He felt like he was burning up, sweat beading on his brow and his tunic clinging to his back.  
  
“That can’t be a good sign,” Sleet said, fingers twitching. He wished he knew where his daggers were, but a cursory glance around him had proven they weren’t within reach. Not that he would be of much use right now considering he could hardly move.  
  
Tungsten rose to his feet, chewing on his bottom lip. “I’ll wake Alaris-san,” he said, and hurried off to do just that, leaving Sleet on his own.  
  
On the other side of the campfire, Iblion was tense and battle-ready as he stood over Ashur, who huddled in his blankets. Without his anima, without any sort of formal training, the lone twin was even more of an open target than Sleet.  
  
But all Sleet could think was that Balaam would have attacked already. Would have sent legions of denizens or a raging blaze. Balaam wasn’t exactly subtle.  
  
 _‘It’s not Balaam,’_ Erebus informed him. ‘ _Alaris would have noticed and we would have sensed it.’_  
  
Thank Asherah for small favors then, Sleet supposed.  
  
Silence descended as the remaining members of their party stared into the forest. Even Alaris, after Tungsten woke her, seemed uneasy, her lips drawn into a tight frown.  
  
The wind swayed the dark trees and somewhere in the shadows, a bird cawed loudly. Sleet straightened, ignoring the pain such a quick motion caused, peering into the shadows. The bushes rustled and Sleet wasn’t the only one to tense, wondering if he could summon the chains again or get a nice handful of that dangerous green flame.  
  
A small body stumbled out of the forest, nearly falling on his or her face, and behind the person, Raven followed, tromping down the bushes.  
  
“What’s going on?” Alaris demanded.  
  
Raven snarled, locking fingers around the back of the stranger's neck. “I told you we were being followed.”  
  
Tungsten gasped while Alaris arched a brow. Sleet craned his neck, struggling to make out their captive’s features as Raven dragged the person toward the fire. The figure was short, lithe, not unlike Sleet himself.  
  
“For what purpose?” Alaris asked, rising to her full height as she stalked toward the mercenary and his captive. Her icy glare focused on the bound man. “Why are you following us?”  
  
“I wasn’t following you,” their captive spat, and Sleet froze, recognizing that voice. “I was following him.”  
  
The figure was dragged another step closer, to where the flames cast flickering shadows across his face. Green eyes glared in Sleet’s direction, leaving no question as to whom the captive meant.  
  
Sleet needed no introductions. He knew that face.  
  
It was Beryl.

* * *

 


	23. Wolf in the Fold - Chapter Two

Sleet struggled to his feet, using the log behind him as a prop. The pain from his thrice-damaged wound was all but forgotten as he managed to stand on shaky limbs. The world spun dizzily, but after stopping to draw in several slow breaths, it steadied.   
  
“Beryl,” he hissed. “What the hell are you doing following me?”   
  
Raven’s gaze swung toward Sleet. “I should have known,” he said. “It takes a thief to know a thief.”   
  
Sleet ignored Raven, more interested in what the hell Beryl was doing than engaging in a snipe fest with the mercenary.   
  
“I told you already,” Beryl said as he tried to shrug out of Raven’s grip. “I’m after Frost. And if there’s one certain way of finding him, it’s by tracking you.”   
  
Eyes widening, Sleet felt himself sway. Standing hadn’t been so much of a good idea, he realized, as heat swept through him. He trembled, aching from the effort of keeping his feet beneath him, but refused to sit. He didn't want to appear weak in front of Beryl.   
  
“And I already told you. I don’t know where Frost is or what he’s doing. You’re as much in the dark as I am.”   
  
Beryl laughed, the action more mockery than humor. “You think I’m stupid. You talked to him, Sleet. I saw him talk to you.”   
  
All eyes fell on Sleet, save for Tungsten who had been there at the time.   
  
Sleet growled low in his throat, his skull throbbing like mad. “And did you miss the part where he vanished and left behind a monster?”   
  
He closed his eyes briefly, swallowing down nausea, and startled when a hand suddenly touched his arm. The pressure was gentle, strangely warm, making Sleet tingle.   
  
“You should sit down, Sleet-san,” Tungsten urged, squeezing Sleet’s elbow and trying to guide him backward.   
  
Raven snorted. “We all know about Frost and Sleet. That’s not news. Why do you want to find the bastard?”   
  
Beryl’s mouth clamped shut, his eyes flickering briefly to Sleet before focusing on the fire.   
  
Sleet allowed Tungsten to pull him back toward his bedroll and log. Sitting seemed like a good idea. “They’re… allies,” Sleet answered for Beryl, and thought about elaborating. But to do that would reveal Frost’s identity and Sleet found himself balking at that. Why? He wasn’t sure.   
  
“If that were true, then he wouldn’t need to track you just to find Frost,” Alaris said and sighed, dragging a hand through her hair. “Goddess above, Sleet, you certainly know how to complicate matters.”   
  
“Like this is my fault!” Sleet snapped as he settled back against the log, panting as though he’d run a ten-hour marathon. He lifted a hand, gently touching his shoulder, which felt burning hot even through the bandages.   
  
That couldn’t be a good sign, could it?   
  
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to start placing blame,” Tungsten said, his eyes darting between them. “It’s clear that Beryl-san is doing this of his own accord. A better discussion would be what to do with Beryl-san now.”   
  
“Someday, I’m going to take Frost and wring him by his scrawny neck,” Raven muttered. “How the hell does he get such loyal followers?”   
  
Sleet, indignant, would have liked to protest, but a wave of dizziness swept over him and he choked on his retort.   
  
Beryl, however, had no such weaknesses. “I’m not some stupid lackey,” he growled.   
  
Alaris sighed again, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I doubt Beryl will stop following us just because we caught him. Yes?” The last was directed toward the thief himself, who jerked his head in a nod.   
  
“Well, we can’t just kill him!” Tungsten said, audibly horrified.   
  
“No one said that,” Alaris said.   
  
Sleet snorted, cutting his eyes at their resident thief-hater. “Yeah, but Raven’s thinking it.”  
  
“We don’t need another useless thief,” Raven grumbled.  
  
“Even so, we’re not murderers,” Alaris said and her shoulders slumped, betraying her weariness. “It’s better that we keep an eye on him than to have him following us and making Raven jumpy.”   
  
Sleet scowled. “It’s not a good idea,” he warned, another wave of dizziness struck.   
  
For a second, his hearing and sight vanished, leaving him scrabbling in a strange, blank white until he found himself in the present again. Sleet swayed, mouth dry, body trembling and covered in a thick coating of sweat. He could feel his clothes clinging to him, despite the chill of the air. It wasn’t that warm next to the fire.   
  
Perhaps he should ask Alaris to take a look at him just in case. There was a pressure in the back of his head, a lot like when Erebus was first trying to speak to him, and it was only getting worse by the second. Not to mention Erebus hadn’t bothered to offer his opinion lately, which was unusual enough to be a concern.   
  
“Yet, we don’t have many other choices.” Alaris' voice sounded distant, as though they were far removed from each other. “Let him go, Raven. I don’t think he means us harm.”   
  
“Maybe not you,” Sleet said, but he went ignored. It was a sad day when the only one on his side was Raven.   
  
Raven muttered something unintelligible under his breath, and released Beryl with a small shove that pushed the thief forward several steps. Shooting a glare over his shoulder at the mercenary, Beryl gingerly rubbed his neck as though feeling for bruises.   
  
“You should at least take his weapons,” Iblion offered from his position on the log.  
  
“I’ve already covered that.” Raven tapped one of his pouches.   
  
Sleet ignored them. He couldn’t focus on Beryl anymore because the sense of wrongness inside of him wouldn't go away. There was a pressure on the back of his mind, like someone had stuck their fingers in his brain and squeezed his gray matter. Another onslaught of heat sweeping over his body and embarrassingly, Sleet whimpered.   
  
“What… the hell?”   
  
He dropped, sprawling to the ground, upper back hitting the log behind him. The heat pooled in his groin like liquid fire, making him throb and ache. His pulse pushed through his veins to the same needy beat.   
  
He heard a sound, a voice in the far distance, that could have been Erebus, but Sleet couldn’t be certain. The world was fading in and out, grey and black, and one hand reached out blindly, looking for something to ground him.   
  
And then there was pain. Sleet knew no other way to describe it. Pain so severe it stole his breath a moment before a sharp scream stole from his lips and he thrashed to get away from the source of it. The pain started in his arm, blossoming out like needles heated to volcanic fire and stabbing into every nerve.   
  
The pain was terrible, but it brought with it a sense of clarity. Sleet opened his eyes to the sight of Alaris bending over him, worry etched into her features, gripping his arm. He didn’t know why, but he was certain she was the source of his pain and Sleet lashed out again, willing to do anything if it would make the agony stop.   
  
Agony that changed to pleasure when hands landed against his shoulders – even the injured one, and pushed him to the ground. Alaris disappeared from his line of sight but that didn’t matter to Sleet. Not when the lightning fire was replaced by trickles of warm pleasure, like the gentle fall of rain over his entire body. The change, from pain to pleasure, made him dizzy, his head swimming.   
  
He could feel the heat and weight of someone else above him, and Sleet instinctively moved toward the source of the pleasure. Wherever it was coming from, he didn’t care, because it was better than the pain. His body arched, something like a moan passing from his lips as his groin throbbed and ached, desperate for a kind touch.   
  
Smack!  
  
Sleet’s head rocked to the side as the sharp sting of a slap echoed across his face where someone’s open palm had struck his left cheek. It brought a moment of clarity and Sleet blinked, staring up into the face of the weight above him.   
  
Raven. Who was laughing like the bastard he was.   
  
Sleet cursed and struggled, wriggling to get free no matter how good it might feel to have Raven pushing him down, restraining him, knee placed just so…  
  
The mercenary pulled back, letting go of his hold. Sleet fell back with a gasp, and curled into himself. He couldn’t fight the heat or the want and need. Another whimper escaped before he could swallow it down.  
  
What the hell was going on?  
  
From the corner of his eyes, Sleet caught Alaris approaching him again but Sleet jerked away, well remembering what had happened the last time. “Don’t touch me,” he snarled, and sucked in a sharp breath, swallowing down a moan.   
  
He could feel their stares, even with his eyes closed. All of them were looking at him as though he were mad and maybe Sleet was. Because none of this made sense. Perhaps Frost had cursed him or something, Sleet couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that this wasn’t normal.   
  
And then Raven’s laughter broke through the rising tension. Laughter full of genuine amusement that seemed to come from the gut and spill through his lips. The eyes shift from Sleet to Raven, who was currently acting more crazed than Sleet.   
  
“What in Hades is the matter with you?” Alaris hissed, her patience long since dissolved.   
  
Frankly, Sleet didn’t blame her. Weird shit happened around them far too much for anyone’s comfort, much less poor Alaris who had been roped into leading their merry band of doomed idiots. Sleet often wondered what deity Alaris had pissed off in a past life to have cursed her with this sort of destiny.   
  
Raven shook his head, his single grey eye gleaming with amusement. “I didn’t really believe it until now but Sleet… he truly is gay.” This was accompanied with another guffaw, a joke that only Raven seemed to understand, though judging by the curl of Beryl’s lips, the blond knew something as well.   
  
Alaris frowned, unamused. “I fail to see how that connects.”   
  
Turning toward Tungsten, Raven addressed the priest. “You said Frost--”  
  
“It wasn’t Frost,” Sleet interjected, before Raven could imply that Frost was the cause of this. That… that creature they had encountered in the alley was not Frost, only a facsimile of him. Balaam in a Frost suit, following his own vile end.   
  
“Balaam, whatever,” Raven conceded, rolling his eye. “You said he called a chimaera, right? And that’s what attacked the little bastard?”   
  
Tungsten nodded. Between he and Raven, a sudden understanding seemed to dawn in Beryl’s eyes.   
  
“You think it was female?” Beryl asked.  
  
Raven smirked. “They are larger, more vicious, and prone to attack anything that moves or is perceived as a threat. Plus, their venom is unique.”   
  
Personally, Sleet didn’t care. He couldn’t concentrate. He wasn’t fading in and out of grey anymore, but it was still difficult to focus. How could he with the way heat kept flooding his body in even, wonderful ways? When his cock throbbed in his breeches, desperate for some kind of relief? When all Sleet wanted to do was climb to his feet and stumble into the privacy of the woods to ease the pressure inside of him.   
  
“Unique how?” Alaris demanded, frustration clear in her tone. They could all do with a bit more sleep, Alaris especially.   
  
“Sleet?” Tungsten appeared at his side, reaching out with a single hand, his face pinched with concern.   
  
Sleet’s mouth opened to warn him, but some deeper, desperate part of him chewed and swallowed the warning. Sleet just watched as the hand came closer, settling innocently on Sleet’s uninjured shoulder in concern. Tungsten couldn’t have known just how good that simple touch would feel, but he did moments later when Sleet let out a low moan, one that escaped before he could swallow or bite it back.   
  
Raven was too smug with himself. “That’s how,” he said, and folded his arms over his chest, unbearably amused with the situation.   
  
Bright green eyes widened as Tungsten quickly withdrew his touch, returning Sleet to his world of throbbing groins, unrelenting heat, and a building sense of pain once more. He needed relief and he needed it soon or Sleet was going to go mad.   
  
It was Beryl who actually offered an explanation. “You see, chimaeras are weird animals. Their females are dominant and don’t like their males too much. But there’s the basic need to reproduce. So the venom encourages the males to mate with them even when the males are scared shitless.”   
  
Ashur looked pained and disturbed, making him seem even paler than usual. For having lived in such a large town, he was oddly cloistered about the strangest things. “They rape them?”   
  
Beryl shrugged. “Hard to call it rape when they are just animals, but yeah. Don’t worry, though, the males don’t even remember it because the females eat them afterward.”   
  
Ashur paled even further as he stared at Beryl in horror. And well, Alaris didn’t look much better, though her face was set with a grim determination. Tungsten was on the verge of fainting and Sleet had to admit, the thought of such made him just a little queasy as well. Chimaeras were nasty beasts.   
  
Beryl shrugged again. “They’ve got to have some nutrients for their newly fertilized spawn, don’t they?”   
  
“That’s…” Tungsten lost his voice for a moment and he shook his head as though he needed the motion to get his composure back. “So Sleet-san…?”  
  
Beryl grinned with a lot of teeth, vaguely resembling a laughing hyena. “Haven’t you ever heard of Incubus’ Bite?”   
  
“How would he? Tungsten’s practically a kid,” Raven said with a grunt, refusing to elaborate for the sake of everyone else who didn’t know.   
  
Sleet, however, did know. He hadn’t been a member of Corynth’s underworld without picking up a few things, including the latest in the drug trade. Sleet hadn’t been one for opiates and hallucinogens himself, but he knew of them. And Incubus’ Bite was one of the better known drugs, one used in whorehouses in order to keep the prostitutes compliant.   
  
“Well, I don’t know what it is either,” Alaris said, looking none too keen about the way Raven and Beryl seemed to be getting along at Sleet’s expense. “So explain.”   
  
“Isn’t it obvious?” Beryl smiled again, sweetly this time as though he were a perfect innocent. “It’s a highly potent aphrodisiac derived from the venom of a female chimaera with a few extra compounds to make things interesting. Sleet’s lucky; he got Incubus’ Bite in its purest, potent form.”   
  
Raven chuckled, scratching at his chin. “And Sleet doesn’t like women. So don’t take it personal, Alaris. He’s just gay all the way to the core.”   
  
With a noise of defeat, Alaris threw her hands into the air. “Of all the… only you, Sleet. I swear to Asherah. Trouble seems to have attached itself to your shoulders.”   
  
“What? Like this is my fault?” Sleet growled, his breath coming in sharp, uneven pants. The throbbing of his groin was an unbearable pain and his fingers twitched, desperate to grasp himself. “Just leave me alone. I’ll take care of this myself.”   
  
“Better men than you have tried,” Raven muttered with a razor-sharp grin that only highlighted his amusement. He was deriving far too much pleasure from the situation.   
  
Ashur’s timid voice cut into Raven’s amusement. “Will it kill him?”   
  
Beryl and Raven – a wrong alliance if Sleet ever saw one – exchanged glances before the thief shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said, and Raven nodded in agreement.   
  
Tungsten huffed, shooting both men looks of disapproval. “You know all about the sting and chimaeras and this Incubite but you don’t know if the venom will kill him?”   
  
“Incubus’ Bite,” Asclepius corrected and Sleet had to blink, but he couldn’t remember when she had shown up. “And it shouldn’t. At least, I don’t think it will. Hephaestion?”   
  
This time, there was a surge of power and a noticeable pop as Hephaestion blinked into existence beside Alaris, looking grave and serious. “That would be a better question for Balaam. Chimaeras fall under his domain.”   
  
“Great,” Alaris huffed and crossed her arms, tapping one foot against the ground. “It’s just an aphrodisiac. It should only make him uncomfortable until he… takes care of business.”   
  
“Should,” Beryl agreed, but he didn’t sound certain, which didn’t inspire confidence in Sleet.   
  
“With that said,” Sleet inserted, his voice echoing with strain. “Could you leave me in peace?”   
  
Raven sneered. “I thought you liked an audience?”   
  
Sleet glared with as much vitriol as his body was capable of producing considering the sheer need that had taken over all his other instincts.   
  
Thankfully, Alaris had enough sense to grab Raven’s arm and all but pull him away. “Stop taunting him, Raven. By Asherah, you two are like children.” Hephaestion blinked out of existence, taking another surge of power with him.   
  
Ashur, luckily, seemed content to return to the fire and his log and Iblion without further comment on his part. Sleet wasn’t overly concerned with the newest addition to their group. Ashur had his own problems to deal with.   
  
Tungsten, however, lingered, casting pitiable glances Sleet’s direction and looking like a forlorn puppy. “Sleet-san….”   
  
Sleet could practically hear the offer in Tungsten’s tone and he shook his head sharply. “Don’t even think about it,” he said, closing his eyes as he fought the urge to shudder. Damn, even the sound of another man’s voice was making him react. “I’m not going to die.”   
  
A hand closed about his uninjured arm, just below the elbow, and dragged him to his feet with surprising strength. Sleet’s eyes snapped open and he stared at Beryl in a drunken haze, wanting to protest, but another part of him wanting to lean into the male body that was so close to him.   
  
Tungsten worried his lip, taking a step forward. “What are you doing?” he demanded, aghast, one hand dropping to the folds of his robe as though intent on drawing his casting rod.   
  
Beryl rolled his eyes, unimpressed by Tungsten’s display. “He’s not going to take care of his business here, is he?” He smirked. “Though Sleet does strike me as the type to like being watched.”   
  
Wobbly and on his feet, Sleet was beyond feeling offended. Beryl’s touch felt too damned good and if it meant he would finally be given a chance for privacy and relief, Sleet could put up with anything.   
  
“Just go help Alaris or something, Tungsten,” Sleet said, biting back a gasp and allowing himself to grip Beryl’s arm for support, resisting the desperate urge to dive into his breeches and relieve his swollen cock. “I’ll be fine.”   
  
Tungsten didn’t look convinced, but the pain in Sleet’s face must have been obvious. One was a lesser of two evils and finally, Tungsten nodded and turned away. Someday, Sleet would have to ask Tungsten just what he’d done to deserve the mage’s loyalty. It certainly couldn't be the way he treated Tungsten; he barely tolerated the mage.   
  
Beryl helped Sleet half-walk, half-stumble away from the campfire and toward Shadowglade. Apparently, he held no reservations about the darkened forest and Sleet didn’t care at this point. He stumbled through the bushes, heading deeper and deeper until he couldn’t hear the voices of the others or see the flickering flames of the fire.   
  
Beryl loosed his hold on Sleet, dropping him down to the ground and Sleet sprawled against the massive roots of some gigantic tree. He bit his lip in an effort to conceal a gasp, the bare brush of his tunic against his tight nipples making him shudder. It felt good, too good, and Sleet groaned, fingers working at the ties of his breeches furiously.   
  
He looked up, finding that Beryl had yet to leave. Green eyes – black in the darkness of the forest – stared at him.   
  
Sleet dredged up a glare. “Shouldn’t you be leaving?”   
  
The other thief crouched, head cocked to the side as though curious, before he reached out, pressing a palm against Sleet’s arousal. Thoughts of either pushing Beryl away or stopping away flittered away like ash on the wind as Sleet cried out, arching toward the pleasurable touch, his hips moving of their own accord.   
  
“Wouldn’t it be nice if Frost were here now, hmm?” Beryl asked, his voice an inviting purr in the darkness of the forest. He tilted his head to the side, drawing nearer as his fingers massaged Sleet’s rigid arousal. “You’d be a willing slave for him, wouldn’t you? Not that you weren’t already.”   
  
Sleet swallowed thickly, one hand clenching against the thick root of the tree as his body responded to Beryl’s touch. “I’m not so far gone I’d consent to you either,” he gritted out, knowing good and well it was a utter lie. His heart was pounding faster and faster in his chest, his breathing sharper, his breeches damp where his cock was trapped.   
  
“Who said anything about consent?” Beryl chuckled. “Sleet, you’re going to beg me for it by the time the venom’s done with you.”   
  
He chose that moment to squeeze Sleet’s cock, making Sleet arch and pant as his entire body spasmed with pleasure. White hot fire shot through his veins as Sleet shuddered and came in his breeches. But it wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. The pleasure wracked his entire body, but he was still hard, still hurting, even through the lingering tremors.   
  
“Fuck,” Sleet breathed, reaching out with weak fingers, thinking to push Beryl away but only succeeding in dragging the other thief closer. “This didn’t happen,” he snarled.   
  
Beryl smirked. “Of course it didn’t. You’re hardly my type, Sleet. And I know I’m not yours.” He cocked his head to the side, even as his fingers worked at Sleet’s breeches, pulling his rigid cock from the confines of his soaked pants. “You’d rather someone else were here. Frost, I know, but someone closer. Raven perhaps?”   
  
Sleet sneered. “Don’t treat me like an idiot!”   
  
“Oh? True he’s not like you and me, but he’ll tumble a man as sure as he’ll tumble a woman,” Beryl said, conversational, but his eyes gleamed in the darkness as his warm, smooth fingers curled around Sleet’s bare cock, still rigid and slicked with come.   
  
“How do you know that?”   
  
Beryl hummed, leaning in closer to Sleet, his tongue flicking out over Sleet’s cheek. “I can read people, unlike you, and I’ve been watching. I’ve learned quite a bit about Raven. He doesn’t like you, but he’s curious.” His head cocked to the side, golden curls slipping over his shoulder. “What would it be like to fuck someone who could take anything he throws at them? He wonders, how much violence do you actually enjoy?”  
  
Sleet shivered at the thought. Not so much because of the idea of Raven doing it, but the thought of it in general. Especially if Frost were behind it. His memories held enough fodder to fuel Sleet’s fantasies, to fuel the groan that spilled from his lips.   
  
His hand snapped out, curling in Beryl’s tunic and dragging the blond closer. He didn’t like Beryl, but he was attractive enough that Sleet could stomach kissing him. Could stomach slanting his mouth over Beryl’s and swapping saliva. The blond tasted like berries and cream, his mouth slick and wet as his tongue pushed into Sleet’s mouth.   
  
Beryl fell over him, a welcome weight, their groins coming into delicious contact. It was the first time Sleet had ever tried this with someone of similar height to him and now he could appreciate that. He shoved his hand between their bodies, grasping at Beryl’s breeches, reaching for the knots of his ties. If Sleet was forced to accept Beryl’s help, then he wasn’t going to be the only one showing his weakness here.   
  
Sleet didn’t even care that they were on the ground, various twigs and roots digging into his back and buttocks. The need inside of him was too great, spiraling out of control and driving him higher, harder, faster. He groaned into the sloppy kiss, giving up on Beryl’s hips with his clumsy fingers and grabbing the blond’s slim hips, slamming their groins together. It felt so good and Sleet shuddered, the delicious heat coiling in his belly finally given room to grow.   
  
Beryl’s hands were no less busy. He sucked in unsteady breaths, small burbles of laughter leaving his lips, as one hand grasped at Sleet’s hair, tugging it mercilessly. He was perched over Sleet, thighs to either side of Sleet’s hips, giving him the impression of having the upper hand. Sleet, however, couldn’t be bothered to care about dominance and submission right now. The need was burning in his blood, frying his brain, and all he wanted was release. His cock was throbbing, his heart pumping harder and harder, his moves desperate and needy.   
  
Beryl was chuckling, his second hand diving up under Sleet’s tunic, sliding up Sleet’s smooth abdomen before finding a peaked nipple beneath the coarse fabric. He mercilessly pinched and twisted, making Sleet cry out as his body arched, feeling as though there was a direct line from Sleet’s nipples to his groin.   
  
“Maybe this is why,” Beryl huffed, grip on Sleet’s hair tight as he pulled Sleet’s head back to focus on him. “Is it the aphrodisiac or are you always this responsive?”  
  
Any glare Sleet might have managed would have been pointless. He felt drenched in lust and he knew his eyes weren’t capable of directing hatred so much as they were demanding more. He was so close already, dancing on the edge, teetering toward his release.   
  
“What does it matter to you?” Sleet demanded, slamming their hips together again, rolling his body in perfect cadence with Beryl’s.   
  
“Can’t a guy be curious?” Beryl said and twisted Sleet’s nipple again, his hold on Sleet’s hair dragging him closer to seal their lips together.   
  
Sleet gasped into the kiss, his body jerking as another orgasm ripped through him, coating his fingers and splattering Beryl’s breeches in semen. He groaned, deep in his throat, as Beryl’s tongue teased at his, dragging out the sensation. The surge of desperation ebbed, but Sleet was still hungry, still hot and bothered.   
  
He groaned again, this time out of irritation. He wondered how much longer the damned aphrodisiac would last, if it was determined to wring him dry. If maybe Frost had thought it some cruel irony to kill Sleet with sex.   
  
“This is going to kill me,” he breathed, and cried out when Beryl tugged on his hair again, a feeling more pleasure than pain. His entire body felt sensitized, skin responding to the slightest touch.   
  
“Hardly,” Beryl snorted, and grinned, his teeth unnaturally bright in the dim light of the moon and stars gleaming through the trees. “But you’ve gotten off twice and I’m not doing this for free.”   
  
“Why are you here?” Sleet demanded, dragging his tongue over his lips as he wriggled his hands between their bodies, trying to free Beryl’s cock from the confines of his leggings.   
  
Beryl chuckled and drew back to his knees. His hands dropped to his own breeches, where he made short work of the knots and freed his rigid length to the cool night air. It should have felt cold to Sleet, considering how far north they were and the snow that threatened, but Sleet’s body was burning up from the inside. Snow was little more than a warm rain to him at this point.   
  
“Does it matter?” Beryl asked, fingers of one hand curling around his cock, smearing fluid from the tip across the thick length. “You’re getting what you want and I have my own reasons.”   
  
“And you know what it is I want?”   
  
Beryl smirked. “Right now, I do,” he said, his free hand slipping out and curling fingers around Sleet’s chin, pulling him forward pointedly. “I think I deserve compensation, don’t you? And Frost always did say you were a good cock-sucker.”   
  
At any other time, such a comment would have provoked a furious reaction in Sleet. Instead, he followed the blond’s subtle direction, part of him twisting in excitement over it. Beryl couldn’t hold a candle to Frost’s growled demands and wicked ideas, but it was enough. Just this once, Sleet would take it, but come morning – and freedom from the chimaera’s venom – Sleet would have his revenge, one way or another.   
  
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Sleet growled, pulling himself forward until he knelt on the ground, lowering his lips to Beryl’s rigid cock.   
  
For all his posturing, Beryl was more than aroused, fluid beading at the tip and the musky smell of his arousal thick in the air. And if there was one thing that the annoying bastard had going for him, it was that he was the perfect size for oral sex.   
  
Sleet stuck out his tongue, briefly tasting the bitterness of Beryl’s precome, before wrapping his lips around the rounded head. Beryl stifled a sound of pleasure, his eyes oddly bright in the darkness, as Sleet took him deeper, tongue stroking the rigid length. He could tell from the way Beryl pulsed on his tongue that the blond wouldn’t last long.   
  
Beryl’s hips twitched as he pushed into Sleet’s mouth, his fingers still wrapped around his cock so that with every flex of his hips forward, they would brush Sleet’s lips. His second hand once again found residence in Sleet’s hair, tangling the brown strands in need of a hair cut.   
  
“I ought to fuck you,” Beryl groaned. “Just to see what Frost thought was so damn good.” Jealousy all but leaked out of the blond’s voice.   
  
Sleet didn’t respond, instead concentrating on making Beryl come. It was odd, he thought, that this was the first time he’d been with someone other than Frost in two years time. He never realized, never stopped to sit and ponder on that little detail. That Frost had been his only fuck buddy, lover, whatever over the length of two years.   
  
Above him, Beryl gasped and groaned, setting his own rhythm. Sleet relaxed his jaw, working Beryl with lips and tongue alone, using all the tricks he knew. That Beryl was attractive in his own rights made this easier. Sleet didn’t have to like the bastard to find him appealing to his eyes. Besides, there was something about the way Beryl sucked in air through his teeth, about the languid motion to his body, that was very attractive.   
  
The heat inside Sleet never ceased, stirring hotter and hotter the more Beryl tugged on his hair and thrust into his mouth. One of Sleet’s hands remained balanced on the ground, fingers digging into loose soil and leaf cover, while the other reached downward, coiling fingers around his own rigid cock, preparing to bring himself off for the third time that night.   
  
“Guess… Frost was right… ngh,” Beryl grunted, shoving himself into Sleet’s mouth, forcing himself deeper with his grip on brown hair.   
  
Sleet breathed through his nose, rolling his eyes to glare up at the blond, but Beryl wasn’t even paying attention. His eyes were closed, his teeth clamped on his lower lip, face painted in pleasure, a look that was appealing even on an annoying man like him. More precome slithered bitterly across Sleet’s tongue and down his throat. He swallowed, tongue working itself over Beryl’s cock.   
  
He throbbed in his own grip, fingers sliding easily, slicked by remnants of his own earlier releases. His breeches were shot, in desperate need of scrubbing. If he closed his eyes, applied a little imagination, he could almost believe he were somewhere else at the moment, with someone else.   
  
And if it were Frost’s face, Frost’s smirk, Frost’s dark gaze that Sleet called to mind, well, that was his business and no one else’s.   
  
He groaned, the sound echoing in his mouth and vibrating along Beryl’s cock. The musky scent of sex seemed to surround Sleet, driving his arousal higher, and he stroked himself quicker, the wet sounds of his movement a perfect accompaniment to Beryl’s panting.   
  
“I’m close,” Beryl warned, a courtesy Sleet wouldn’t have expected. Though he could tell, from the copious amounts of precome sliding down his throat.   
  
Tightening his lips around Beryl’s cock, Sleet swirled his tongue around the head and sucked Beryl as far as he could take, swallowing around the rigid length. He felt Beryl stiffen, heard his sharp intake of breath, and then Beryl’s fingers clasped Sleet’s head. He came, spilling his load down Sleet’s throat, leaving Sleet little option to swallow.   
  
Sleet swallowed all that Beryl had to offer and then pulled back, licking his lips as Beryl’s fingers loosened their hold on Sleet’s hair. As Beryl basked in the lingering tremors of pleasure, Sleet concentrated on his own, jerking himself off, cock sensitized by the proximity of his other orgasms. It wasn’t long before he came, a pathetic few spurts dribbling over his fingers.   
  
Collapsing backward against the ground, Sleet panted, exhausted. His body was still throbbing, but it was of a sort he was sure he could handle. The urgency had faded, leaving only a distant growl of hunger behind. He knew, without looking, that Beryl was smirking, convinced he’d beaten Sleet somehow, as though they were in some game that Sleet didn’t know about.   
  
“Surely you’re not tired already,” Beryl said.   
  
Sleet, without looking, lifted his hand in a derogatory gesture that had become universal country-wide.   
  
Beryl laughed.  
  


* * *


	24. Wolf in the Fold - Chapter Three

_‘Aesir must have a sick sense of humor,’_ Alaris muttered as she paced back and forth across the campsite, short bursts of movement that did little to ease the agitation inside of her.   
  
A low, male chuckle echoed from the bright corners of her mind. _Why so?_  
  
Alaris rolled her eyes. ‘ _Did he honestly think Sleet would make a good animus, much less a decent human being?’_  
  
I’m sure he had his reasons, Hephaestion said, with the air of one long suffering. Not unlike Alaris' own tone as a matter of fact.   
  
This wasn’t a conversation they hadn’t had before. Alaris had questioned every addition to her motley band of heroes. Considering what she had been presented with, Alaris often questioned Aesir’s sanity.   
  
A thief. An apprentice mage. A weaver’s twin sons, and the athletic one taken by Balaam. The most battle-useful member of her team was Raven and he was the one not bonded to an anima! This was the crew destined to save the world? Did Aesir want them to fail? Or did it amuse him to watch them struggle?  
  
Alaris snorted. ‘ _Reasons beyond us mere mortals, I suppose,_ ’ she retorted, and continued to pace, her feet wearing a path in the dirt and twigs. ‘He’s going to get the rest of us killed. As if we needed any more complications.’  
  
He’s trying.   
  
‘No, he’s figuring out what the best advantage is for him in any given situation,’ Alaris countered, her loose hair swinging back and forth across her back. She clasped her hands behind her to keep from gesticulating.   
  
_That’s human.  
  
‘That’s selfish.’   
  
He’s human,_ Hephaesion replied.   
  
Alaris sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. They were arguing in circles again.   
  
“Yo, Alaris! While the brat’s busy, let’s get some business taken care of!” Raven bellowed, pulling her from the conversation. “So we can figure out where we’re going.”   
  
She rubbed a her forehead, a purely unconscious gesture that she’d gotten in the habit of even when her head didn’t ache, and looked at her companions. The supposed saviors of the world.   
  
Tungsten was perched on a log – the same one abandoned by Sleet – chewing on dried jerky as he stared off in the direction Sleet and Beryl had gone. His youthful face pinched with worry, worry that Alaris considered wasted on either thief. Raven sat next to Iblion on another log, a map that had seen better days stretched between them. On the other side of Iblion, Ashur huddled in a blanket, as wordless as he’d been since waking after the battle, and staring off into space.   
  
These were the people – missing three that hadn’t been located and Sleet – that were going to stop Balaam and save all of mankind from utter destruction. Why couldn’t Alaris feel relieved?   
  
“I’ve told you,” Alaris said, forcing herself not to speak through gritted teeth. She moved closer to the fire, holding her chilly hands to the warmth of the flames. “I don’t know for certain. But I have the feeling we’re where we need to be.”   
  
“Are we going to enter Shadowglade?” Tungsten asked, and even his concern couldn’t hide the hint of excitement in his voice.   
  
Alaris wasn’t sure. She only understood the feeling in her gut. The one that said they were on the right track. “Perhaps.”   
  
Raven grunted. “That’s not a good idea,” he said, taking his map away from Iblion and rolling up the tattered parchment.   
  
“I never took you for being superstitious,” Alaris said, lifting her eyebrows at him. “Surely a forest doesn’t scare you.”   
  
He grunted again, ever so attractive, but Alaris had given up on teaching him some manners. “Shadowglade is no mere forest. We should make sure we’re on our way by morning.”   
  
“Easier said than done,” Alaris said. “I’ve still no certainty to the direction of the animus. I think he – or she – knows.”   
  
Tungsten blinked. “Knows? What do you mean?”   
  
“I think he knows he’s an animus.” Alaris frowned. “I think he knows and he’s trying to conceal it which is why he keeps dancing in and out of my senses.”   
  
“Why would someone want to hide it?” Ashur asked, voice hoarse and distant, but at least it proved he was paying attention. She was beginning to worry the poor boy was going to go catatonic without his brother around.   
  
Alaris shrugged, turning away from the campfire to sit against her chosen log. “Many reasons. He – or she – might be like Sleet, unreceptive to what their anima has to offer. Or they might be afraid of the future. Or they might even think they’re going crazy, as you said you and your brother initially thought.”   
  
“But you’re still sensing him, correct?” Tungsten asked.   
  
“Yes.” Alaris nodded, gnawing on her bottom lip. “In small bursts. We’re close, but I don’t know how close. I can’t tell if we should go east or west or further north.”   
  
Raven harrumphed, sliding down to sit on the ground and lean back against the log. “Further north into Shadowglade you mean,” he said, poking at the fire with a long stick.  
  
“Yes,” Alaris agreed, and across the campfire, Iblion echoed her sentiment, two fingers stroking his chin in thought.   
  
“I’m not as sensitive as my niece, but we anima do have an affinity for one another,” he said. “Even with my senses muted as they are, I can still feel the presence of another deity nearby. I think we should venture into the cursed wood.”   
  
Raven’s poking disturbed one of the logs, causing it to roll over with a puff of ember and smoke. “I think the both of you are insane.”   
  
“We’ll do what’s necessary,” Alaris corrected. “Besides, we can’t leave until Sleet is ready to travel.” She chose her words carefully to avoid saying what she really meant. More for Tungsten and Ashur’s sake than anyone else.   
  
Once again, she questioned Aesir’s wisdom. Alaris could have used a dozen warriors and mercenaries and mages and priests. Not two innocents who knew so little about the world they might as well have been children. Tungsten was kind and helpful enough, willing to put himself in harm’s way, but he was only going to get himself killed. They all were.   
  
“Beryl-san hasn’t come back yet either,” Tungsten pointed out as though it was a fact none of them had noticed up until now.   
  
Alaris had, but had chosen not to comment. Whatever the thieves chose to do in the privacy of the forest was no business of hers. Which didn’t account much for Sleet’s taste, but to each his own, she supposed. Beryl was at least a step up from chasing after their worst enemy.   
  
Ashur made a confused face, emerging from the cocoon of his blankets. “Why would Sleet do that with him? I thought they hated each other?”   
  
Raven rolled his neck, staring at Ashur in disbelief. “You really are a kid, aren’t you?”  
  
“Raven,” Alaris warned, hoping that the mercenary would quit antagonizing the only people willing to help them for once.   
  
“You can’t hide him from the world forever. He’s supposed to be a fighter, isn’t he?”   
  
Alaris sighed and rubbed at her forehead again. One day, she would have an impression of her fingers in the flesh at her temple. And it would be caused by all the men she was forced to travel with. Why couldn’t Aesir have chosen a few more women? Well, to be fair, Raven’s sister had been one but she was no longer an option. As had Byakko’s animus. Both of whom were destroyed by Balaam now. Had he gone after the women first, thinking them the weakest? Or was that just pure bad luck?   
  
“Someday, I must meet this Frost,” Tungsten said, and popped the last of the deer jerky into his mouth, chewing and swallowing before adding, “And the real one. Not the one who keeps trying to kill us.”   
  
Raven stared at the mage. “Why on Lieve would you want to do that?”   
  
Shrugging, Tungsten pulled out his casting rod, running his fingers over the etched wood. “Because Beryl-san and Sleet-san are so devoted to him. It makes me wonder what kind of person he must be.”   
  
The mage had a point, Alaris had to concede. Aside from the fact that he was Balaam’s chosen, Frost had charisma of his own. Sleet claimed his whole purpose for being on this quest was to find Frost for some reason understandable only to Sleet. Beryl claimed he was here to follow Sleet and subsequently, find Frost. And it was only recently that Balaam and Frost had begun to truly bond, which begged the question as to how Frost was able to control Balaam’s minions from the beginning. Alaris also suspected that Frost was no mere thief, though getting answers from either Sleet or Beryl would be an exercise in futility.   
  
Above Raven, Karasu cawed and abandoned his perch with a rustle of leaves and branches. Alaris looked up, watching Karasu circle the air above them, barely visible against the star-studded sky.  
  
Raven rose to his feet, frowning. Karasu had been the one to announce Beryl’s presence as well. Alaris had learned to appreciate the bird’s finely tuned senses. Not to mention that the horses were snorting and snuffling in their tethers, Flurin especially pawing the ground.   
  
There was no magic in the air, no feeling of an attack from Balaam. Alaris stood, noticing that the men echoed her action. Ashur’s blanket pooled at his feet. Iblion reached behind himself, fingers curling around the shaft of one of his axes, his pale eyes searching the brush and darkness.   
  
“What is it?” Alaris demanded, working her way around the fire.   
  
Raven held up a hand, encouraging Karasu to land on his forearm. The bird cawed again before banking down. Karasu was twitchy, head cocking from one side to the other, feathers all fluffed.   
  
“Not Balaam,” Raven said, eye narrowed. “We’re surrounded.”   
  
Surrounded? By what or whom? Alaris hadn’t even known they were being watched to begin with! Nothing lived in this area. At least, nothing she knew of. Sure there were rumors, just as there were superstitious tales of Shadowglade, but nothing Alaris had given any weight.   
  
Tungsten was looking worried, his fingers running over and over his casting rod. “Alaris-san?” he asked, and frankly, Alaris was surprised that he didn’t stutter.   
  
She shook her head. “Do we run? Fight?”   
  
“Neither. It’s too late,” Raven said.  
  
As if to prove Raven's point, people suddenly cleaved from the shadows, stepping into the ring of light provided by the campfire.   
  
Alaris froze, feeling Hephaestion’s surprise echo within her. Had she any attack magic, Alaris would have had it burning at her fingertips, but the best she could do was hope her abilities – healing specifically – wouldn’t be needed.   
  
More than a dozen men and woman appeared from the forest, their skin amber in the light of the campfire, and every one of them displaying long hair in various twists, braids, and designs. Bows raised, arrows aimed at the five companions.  
  
“The Kurai,” Raven growled to her left, his fingers twitching as he moved into an attack stance. Karasu clicked its beak, shifting around on Raven’s other arm. “I didn’t think they’d dare crawl from under their rock.”   
  
“Who?”   
  
Raven wasn’t given a chance to answer before a man – the leader perhaps – stepped forward and barked something at the five of them, startling Tungsten and making Ashur give a squeak of surprise. The language was unlike anything Alaris had heard – similar to the ancient tongues written in the texts at the Temple of Hephaestion, but not close enough that Alaris could translate.   
  
“Alaris?” Tungsten asked, lifting his hands to show he was no harm. “What do they want from us?”   
  
“I don’t know,” she said, and looked the leader in the eye.   
  
He was tall, taller than Raven even, his black hair swept back from his face with a pair of braids twisted with bird feathers. His eyes were equally dark, his jaw square and firm. He, like the rest of his companions, wore thick pants and a thick, long-sleeved shirt, both overlain by a sleeveless robe belted at the waist. Their feet were booted and their weapons varied, but they were all armed.   
  
They did not look like savages. They looked civilized and intelligent.   
  
_‘Hephaestion?’_  
  
He was quiet for a moment, long enough that the leader again made that gesture toward her, the sound of bows creaking filling the uncomfortable silence. It was obviously a threat of some kind, though Alaris couldn’t be certain.   
  
“Drop your weapons.”   
  
Now that was coherent. Alaris startled, looking past the obvious leader to the man who had given the quiet order, standing on the other side of the leader. He was a few inches shorter, noticeably different by the color of his hair –the silver of age—and the vivid shade of his eyes, an eerie, cat-like gold. Other members of the surrounding strangers had the odd shade to their hair, but no one else displayed that eye color.   
  
“You speak Common?”   
  
“In as much as was made necessary,” the man said. He looked to his leader, who did not look pleased. “Drop your weapons.”   
  
There was something in his gold eyes that was familiar to Alaris. Something that pinged on her senses. She cocked her head to the side.   
  
_Alaris. Don’t be so hasty._   
  
Ah, so that explained the strange feeling in her gut.   
  
At her side, Raven started, as though intending to move but her hand snapped out, fingers curling around his arm and holding him back. “No, don’t fight them,” she hissed, refusing to take her eyes away from the leader or his silver-haired companion.   
  
Raven snarled, muscles coiling beneath her grip. “Why the fuck not?”   
  
She lowered her voice. “The animus is among them.”   
  
“I thought you couldn’t feel him!”   
  
Alaris shook her head, that whispering feeling inside of her growing stronger. “I can’t. I just have a suspicion.” She looked at their other companions. “Do as he says,” she said, in a louder voice this time. “Iblion, Tungsten, do as the man says.”   
  
“What?”   
  
She squeezed his arm. “Raven, just trust me, okay? I know what I’m doing.”   
  
Raven growled, grey eye burning with frustration, and then his arm twitched. Karasu took off into the night, cawing loudly, and Raven jerked his sheath off his back, tossing it to the ground.   
  
“You had better,” he spat, as the sound of Iblion’s axes hitting the earthen floor echoed through the night. Tungsten and Ashur had no weapons but they continued to hold up their hands, to show their lack of threat.   
  
One of the men swung his bow over his shoulder and then darted forward to collect their weapons, despite Raven bearing his teeth at the man. The mercenary was treated to a dispassionate look before the tribesman returned to the side of his people, currently keeping the companions enclosed within their tight circle.   
  
“We’ve done as you asked,” Alaris said coolly, addressing the leader, but her eyes kept shifting to the man beside him, the one who knew their language and felt like an animus. “What do you want?”   
  
The leader spoke rapidly in their strange tongue, gesticulating something, but it was his companion who spoke. “You are on Kurai lands. Why?”   
  
“Maybe we’re just travelers passing through. You ever think about that?” Raven demanded, ignoring the looks that Alaris sent him to be quiet. He wasn’t going to help matters being his usual belligerent self. In fact, Raven was more likely to get them killed.   
  
The gold-eyed Kurai lifted both brows. “Travelers do not come this far north. Travelers do not approach Shadowglade unless they intend to enter it. I repeat, why are you here?”   
  
“We’re looking for someone,” Alaris answered, holding his gaze. “Someone specific to be exact. We don’t know his name or his face, but I’ll recognize him when we meet.”   
  
He stared at her, as though trying to discern whether she told truth or lies before turning to the leader, conversation passing rapidly between them. Alaris might not have understood their language, but even she could see that it didn’t look like things were going well. In all likelihood, the two were debating whether or not to kill Alaris and her companions.   
  
“This is a bad fucking idea,” Raven growled, glancing over his shoulder at the arrows still trained on them. “They’re just going to kill us.”   
  
“I don’t think so,” Alaris lied. In reality, she could only hope so.   
  
That golden-eyed man… he knew something. He spoke Common when none of his fellows did. Alaris wondered why, just as much as she was certain the animus was among the Kurai.  
  
No matter how much she searched her memory and the books she’d read, Alaris could not recall a tribe by the name of the Kurai. Then again, her lore on Shadowglade had been spotty at best.  
  
 _‘Hephaestion?’  
  
The animus is among them, _he confirmed, and shifted in her mind. He was worried and trying not to show it. _He’s here.  
  
‘The man with the gold eyes?’   
  
That would be my guess,_ Hephaestion said, and sighed, a gusty sound that never failed to tickle her in a strange way. _He’s blocking it. I’ve never seen someone with such enormous mental strength before. It’s indescribable._  
  
Their disagreement grew louder until the leader whipped his hand through the air, forcing his silver-haired companion into silence. A look of stormy disapproval twisted the gold-eyed man’s features before he jerked his head into a terse nod. A sharp rebuttal fell from his lips that made the leader narrow his eyes, but speak nothing further.   
  
Alaris waited with breathless anticipation, Raven like a coiling serpent waiting to strike at her side.   
  
“You will come with us,” the translator finally said, his tone cold and terse. “If you struggle, you will know the skill of a Kurai archer.”   
  
Alaris nodded, willing Raven to keep his damn mouth shut for once. “We understand,” she said, cutting glances at her other companions. “We will do as you say.”   
  
“This is such a bad idea,” Raven growled under his breath, but nevertheless, he allowed the Kurai to bind his wrists behind his back.   
  
Alaris was patient as they did the same to her, and was relieved when her other companions didn’t fight back either. Ashur was pale and tight-lipped and Iblion looked as disgruntled as Raven, but neither of them were as reckless as the mercenary. Tungsten, for his part, kept glancing at the forest, as though Sleet would spring from the shadows at any moment and find himself made a captive as well.   
  
“Where are you taking us?” Raven demanded, a question that Alaris had considered holding until they actually arrived.   
  
Gold eyes conferred with his leader before he answered, “Reiran. So that you may stand before Chieftain Adlai.”   
  
None of it sounded familiar to Alaris, but she assumed that Reiran was the name of the Kurai’s home and Chieftain Adlai was self-explanatory. In other words, Alaris and her friends were not to be killed yet. The future might prove to be different. Alaris hoped they lived long enough to prove their mission and get through to their elusive animus.   
  
Lord Aesir must derive great amusement from watching their struggle. Did he actually care for the fate of the war and his world? Or was it all some big game to him? Alaris supposed that being the king of the gods, he could just wipe everything and everyone away, start anew if he wished. Not even Hephaestion’s reassurances that Aesir was more benevolent than that could comfort her.   
  
The warriors lowered their weapons, though Alaris continued to consider them a threat. The fact remained that they could raise them again and a lot quicker than any of her companions could consider putting up a fight.   
  
The leader and Gold eyes conferred again, moving together toward the forest as the warriors clustered around their captives. Alaris and her companions were prodded along, forced to follow as they entered the dreaded Shadowglade. Raven muttered something about being forced to enter the cursed wood; Alaris ignored him.   
  
“Sleet-san is still out there. Shouldn’t we be worried?”   
  
Raven snorted. “Are you kidding? That brat’s already been captured and is sitting pretty, waiting for us to storm to the rescue. He’s an accident waiting to happen and you all know it.”   
  
Alaris sighed. As much as she hated to admit it, Raven was probably right.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
Sleet was in the middle of scrubbing his breeches in a stream Beryl had sniffed out when the rustling of bushes made his skin prickle more than the chill of the water itself. A few paces away, Beryl lifted his eyes to Sleet, silent communication passing between them. It could have been anything, a rabbit or owl even, but Sleet’s senses were afire. A beast had not made that rustle.   
  
He forced himself to tug on his soaking breeches, the cloth wet and clammy against his skin, but better than facing some horror half-nude. His boots were still on the bank, unfortunately, and his daggers lying alongside them. All he had was an agile frame and the voice in the back of his head. Which had been oddly silent as of late.   
  
_I was making myself scarce until your business had concluded,_ Erebus offered.   
  
Sleet ignored him, focused on the rustling bushes. The sound of a broken stick carried through the night, and Sleet whirled to face it, the stream splashing around his feet. Beryl hissed at him to be quiet, but it didn’t matter. Whatever was out there already knew where the two thieves could be found.   
  
“Beryl--”  
  
Forms shot out of the dark, swooping down on Sleet so that he had little time to react. They were cloaked with the night, difficult to tell apart from the looming trees, and he ducked under the first reach, falling to his knees in the freezing water. It was only a foot deep, but it was cold, and a startled shout fell from Sleet’s lips.   
  
Many feet splashed and Beryl, too, cried out an epithet as he fought off against his opponents. Hands reached, latching on Sleet’s arms, pulling him to his feet. He kicked out against one opponent, striking what he thought to be a knee, and something rose out of the dark, striking him against the head.   
  
It made his ears ring, and stars danced in front of his eyes. Sleet sagged in the combined grip of his captors – he assumed them to be human judging by the lack of talons, teeth, and immediate consumption of his human flesh.   
  
He heard Beryl shout something about being let go immediately followed by cursing, before Beryl went silent, either killed or knocked out. Sleet hoped for the latter. He might not like Beryl very much, but he wouldn’t hope for the other thief’s death.   
  
His head aching, Sleet didn’t put up much of a fight as they dragged him from the river to the bank. He caught sight of Beryl, the blond slung over a shoulder, unconscious by all estimations.   
  
Someone grabbed Sleet's hands, winding a rough twine around his wrists and binding them together. Sleet felt a little nauseous, his head pulsing and something dripped against the back of his neck. Fantastic. He was bleeding.   
  
They jabbered over him in a language Sleet didn’t understand. But being as they weren’t immediately stabbing him sharp implements, Sleet assumed they were weren’t going to kill him. Not that such a thing served as any comfort.   
  
_‘Now would be a good time to show off your godly abilities,_ ’ Sleet informed his parasitic companion.   
  
_I’m not a parasite,_ Erebus all but growled. _And we’re not sure of the situation just yet. Something’s going on with the others, too._   
  
Sleet rolled his eyes, distracted when his captor jerked on his bound hands and pulled him forward, forcing Sleet to follow. ‘ _What makes you say that?’  
  
I don’t have any proof, if that’s what you mean._   
  
A hand shoved Sleet in the middle of his back, making him stumble forward. Sleet whirled to glare in the general direction of the man, and the abrupt movement made his head spin. He swayed on his feet, more stars dancing behind his eyes. Apparently head wounds were nothing to laugh off.   
  
Knees wobbling, Sleet swallowed down a sudden surge of nausea. Someone else gripped his bonds and there was more jabbering before Sleet felt himself unceremoniously lifted from his feet. He squirmed and wriggled like a fish out of water, but it didn’t stop them from slinging him over someone’s beefy shoulder. An equally beefy arm clamped around the back of Sleet’s upper thighs like an iron bar.   
  
Well, this was just great. He could hear Raven now, muttering about how Sleet had gotten himself in trouble again and Raven would have to come bail him out again. It was only a small consolation that Beryl was tied up in this mess, too.   
  
His captors chattered around him, a conversation Sleet didn’t even pretend to understand and he sighed, relaxing as much was possible against the meaty shoulder that served as his resting place. His bare toes wriggled in the cold air and it was of small amusement that his wet breeches were currently soaking his captor’s clothing.   
  
The group of men bearing Sleet were much more silent as they walked through the forest, steps a bare wisp of sound across the leaf-strewn floor. He wondered if the noise they had made in their initial attack had been intentional, because at the moment, they were displaying skills that Sleet envied.   
  
Sleet’s ears picked up other noises – footsteps less skilled than his captors. He perked up, lifting his head to peer into the darkness. The glow of a lantern came into view, carried by a member of another group of strangers. This shed some light on the situation, giving Sleet a better glimpse of the men who had made him a captive.   
  
They were well-dressed, looked intelligent even, hardly the sort to be creeping around Shadowglade. Sleet had expected mindless savages not these men.   
  
Even more surprising were the five men and women that trailed along in a tight clump in the center of the other group of strangers. Sleet’s very own companions, hands bound behind their backs, trudging along.   
  
Of course, Sleet’s luck had never been grand so it was Raven who first spotted Sleet in his current predicament, both groups making an acquaintance. Their captors conversed in their own language, leaving Sleet to reunite with his companions.   
  
“Well,” Sleet drawled, striving for nonchalance despite his less than flattering position astride someone’s meaty shoulder. “Fancy meeting you here.”   
  
Alaris sighed, the sort of sigh she seemed to give often that spoke plainly of her disappointment. “Mr. Underwood, why do I fail to be surprised?”   
  
“Because getting captured and/or in mortal peril is so far the only thing he’s good at?” Raven said with a snort, his single eye rich with humor.   
  
Sleet rolled his eyes. “If I’m not mistaken, you seem to be in the same position as me.”   
  
“I’m glad that you’re alright, Sleet-san,” Tungsten said, before Raven’s growl could emerge in something less than flattering. As it always did. “What about Beryl-san?”   
  
As best he could, Sleet gestured with his head toward the unconscious thief, slung across another shoulder. “Down for the count. I guess I have a harder head.”   
  
Raven made a sound that was a cross between a choke and a cough, but he kept his comments to himself. Whether or not it had anything to do with the heated glare Alaris was tossing his way Sleet could only guess.   
  
Their captors started up the march again, the separate groups converging into one. Sleet took small comfort in knowing that Alaris didn’t seem too concerned at the moment. Perhaps she knew something that he didn’t.   
  
Sighing to himself, Sleet wriggled on his captor’s shoulder and tried to get settled in, prepared for what was certain to be an uncomfortable journey.   
  


* * *


	25. Wolf in the Fold - Chapter Four

She _knew_.   
  
The thought circled through Malach’s head over and over, every time he so much as glanced at the woman. She kept looking at him, her brown eyes piercing. It was as though she were waiting for him to shout the truth to the heavens. Truths he had been protecting for so long they would emerge from his mouth with the dust and cobwebs of well-hidden secrets.   
  
She knew. Suddenly, Malach found it hard to breathe.   
  
“We should kill them,” Dror muttered, his eyes narrowing with displeasure when he caught Malach looking at their prisoners. “This is foolish.”   
  
“We are not murderers,” Malach said, forcing himself to look away from the woman and her strange companions. “We are a civilized people, Dror. Your father would choose to do the same thing were he in our place.”   
  
Dror frowned, his brow wrinkling like an overripe mango. “Father would see them for the threat they are. It is your curiosity that allows them to live. It is foolish.”   
  
“Why do you want their blood so badly?” Malach demanded, trying to ignore the itchy feeling between his shoulder blades. As though that woman were watching him.   
  
“You cannot feel it?” Dror said and he whipped around to face Malach, halting while the rest of their tribesmen continued without them. “They have a strange smell. One of blood and death. It all but swallows them. They bring nothing but bad omen.”   
  
Malach licked his lips nervously, head turned to watch the strangers as they passed. They looked tattered and fatigued, on the end of their ropes, but Dror was right. They carried an eerie sensation, an eerie smell. It made shivers dance across Malach’s skin and crawl up his spine. He didn’t like it.   
  
“It is still not our decision to make,” Malach replied, forcing himself to act like the warrior he was, paying no heed to the cowardice attempting to seep into his actions. “It is to be the chieftain’s and you know it.”   
  
Dror squared his jaw, eyes shifting past Malach to glare at their captives. “That does not make it any less risky,” he said, and stalked off to the head of their party. No doubt he wished to speak to Leyan.   
  
Malach sighed and shook his head, falling into step with the rest of the warriors. His hand dropped to the sword belted at his side, fingers curling around the familiar hilt as though it would serve as some comfort.   
  
He knew that Dror didn’t want to admit the simplest reason. Fear. Dror was afraid of what these strangers might bring to the Kurai. Malach understood because he felt the same fear. The Kurai had little contact with the rest of Lieve over the past few decades and Dror – like his Chieftain father – wanted to keep it that way. Some traditions were meant to be kept and obeyed.   
  
_And some meant to be broken_.   
  
A cold shudder traced its way down Malach’s spine, churning in his belly, threatening to dispel his hastily eaten breakfast. He closed his eyes, sucked in a short breath, and concentrated until the last echoes of that unwelcome _thought_ were banished from his memory. It had no business intruding, whispering seductively into his consciousness like a dreamweaver.   
  
“Malach!”   
  
Dror's shout made Malach startle. He blinked, forcing his body into motion. Dror required him at the head of the party and the last thing Malach needed was to be caught staring off into space again. He didn’t need the suspicious stares.   
  
His shoulder blades itched again and Malach turned his head, managing to catch eyes with the female. She was watching him again.  
  
She knew.   
  
He tore his gaze away and hurried to catch up to Dror before his uncle grew more annoyed.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
It was dawn by the time Sleet realized they were approaching the end of Shadowglade. The trees were further apart, the underbrush less dense. He hadn’t thought the forest to be so broad, but then, he wouldn’t put it past the Kurai to have wandered in circles to confuse their captives.   
  
His feet were hurting, repeatedly cut and pricked by walking over various stones, twigs, and pinecones. Sometime during the night, the man carrying him had not been amused by Sleet’s light dozing and had forced him to walk. The abrupt switch from hanging to standing had made his head spin, but Sleet ignored it, glad to be moving on his own volition. He learned to mourn the loss of his boots. The ground was not forgiving to his bare feet.   
  
A strong hand on Sleet’s elbow kept him from wandering off, not that he could with the cluster of captors surrounding him and his companions. Sleet was exhausted, shaky, his body acting as though he were coming down from a drugged high. He thought it an aftereffect of the chimaera’s venom.   
  
Early morning light streamed down weakly through the trees, and ahead of them, Sleet could see the vegetation growing thinner. The odd, enclosed feeling of Shadowglade began to fade until they stepped into fresh, morning air, only a few scattered trees in sight to give the illusion of forest.   
  
And then he saw it.   
  
Sleet’s mouth dropped. He’d seen a lot in his short life, had wandered all over Corynth even. But he’d never seen anything like this.   
  
It was a city carved from stone, carved right into the mountain truth be told. Great hunks of stone loomed over the entire city like a giant ceiling, shielding the buildings below and creating a ledge of sorts. And the buildings themselves? They looked as though they had been carved into the side of the mountain, their windows facing the open air but the bulk of their construction hidden by the sandstone which was streaked with ruddy colors.   
  
Sleet knew he wasn’t the only one gaping, from the sound of Tungsten’s wonderment and Ashur’s surprise. Raven was stoic as always, like Iblion, but even Alaris was impressed. It was hard not to be.   
  
The city was beautiful.   
  
As it came into sight, their captors started jabbering to each other in their own tongue again. There was a disagreement between the leader and the man with gold eyes, Sleet surmised. It resolved itself quickly, and the leader stalked off, taking a few subordinates with him.   
  
The rest of the men and the gold-eyed man rounded up their captives, marching them down the sloping path toward the city.   
  
Sleet looked at Alaris, but she didn't seem concerned by the events. Raven looked angry, but then, he always looked angry. Sleet wondered if he should be worried for his safety. What he knew of the Kurai amounted to children's tales and rumors. Would they really flay the flesh from his bones to flavor their soup? By the gods, he'd thought the Kurai nothing more than myth!  
  
He glanced from the corner of his eye at Beryl, who looked twitchy. His gaze was distant, his mouth pinched in a thin line. He didn't have the look of a hunted man, as any proper thief would if he knew he was in immediate danger. Whether that spoke of a personal experience with the Kurai or that Beryl was too dumb to be worried, Sleet didn't know. And he wasn't about to ask.   
  
_'They aren't cannibals,_ ' Erebus said. ' _If that's your main concern.'  
  
So they won't kill me?  
  
'I didn't say that. Just that they won't eat you after you're dead._' Erebus paused, and Sleet got the impression of a wicked smile. ' _Or while you're alive for that matter_.'   
  
Sleet shuddered and refused to respond to that. He suspected Erebus was alarming him on purpose, to watch him squirm. So Sleet concentrated on putting one unbooted foot in front of the other, the rocky ground digging into his poor flesh.  
  
The path sloped downward, the forest itself growing at a higher elevation, but the entrance to the Kurai's home located at the base of the cliff face. There wasn't much activity in the open space between forest and rock, but every once and awhile, Sleet could see faces peering from the window openings in the cliff face. A half-dozen armed guards patrolled the base of the mountain, concealed by high stands of thick, golden grasses.   
  
Unease crept over Sleet as they headed toward a large opening, the rock gaping like a maw, hungry and enclosing. He wasn't claustrophobic by any means, but the fact he couldn't be reassured of his safety made Sleet reluctant to enter the Kurai's home.   
  
A sharp spear prodded him in the back and Sleet trailed behind the others, stepping out of bright sunlight, into the cool confines of the underground tunnel. It took several moments for his eyes to adjust to the torch-lit corridor. The air had a smoky quality to it, that made Sleet's nose twitch and his throat adopt a tickle. The quarters were more confined, causing the entire party to draw closer together. Sleet's arms kept brushing Beryl's.   
  
No one spoke; the silent procession continued. They took a tunnel to the left, the floor sloping steadily upward in a gentle rise. They passed other Kurai, who watched the strangers with wide eyes and no small amount of suspicion. It made Sleet's skin crawl. And no matter how hard he tried to keep track of the route they had taken there were too many twists, turns, and doors for him to remember.   
  
Frost probably could have done it, but Sleet was no master thief, no matter how much he declared otherwise. And he doubted Beryl could do it either.   
  
Finally, they stopped at one door, larger than all the others, deeply buried within the cliff face. It was bracketed by torches and there were symbols carved into the stone around the frame. An animal's skull hung above the doorway, empty eyesockets staring back at Sleet. Lovely.   
  
The silver-haired Kurai lifted a hand and knocked, though he didn't wait for a response before he lifted the latch and pushed it open. He stepped aside, gesturing with one arm. Sleet and his companions were prodded inside, Alaris leading the way, chin held high.   
  
They entered a room, a meeting hall probably, large enough to hold a hundred men and women. The floor was spattered with animal skins, and tapestries decorated the walls, covered in brightly-colored shapes as opposed to depicting some kind of scene. At the far end was a small table, which at max could seat six people. Presently, however, there were only two occupants. An older man, clean shaven with grey-streaked hair, sat in the central chair. Another man stood behind him, perched at his left side, his long beard braided while his head was otherwise bare.   
  
“You stand before Chieftain Adlai,” the gold-eyed stranger said from behind them. “Show him proper respect, strangers.”   
  
Sleet wasn't sure what he meant by that. Did he expect them to kneel or something? Whatever. He'd just watch and see.   
  
No one prodded him in the back so Sleet remained standing, just to the right of Alaris. He was overly aware of Raven's presence behind him, over a head taller and much more ominous. Tungsten stood on Alaris' left with Asher beside him and Iblion behind both of them. Beryl stood on Sleet's other side.   
  
Chieftain Adlai rose slowly, his sharp brown eyes raking over the assorted companions. “Why 'ave you come?” he demanded, his accent thick, nothing like the clear and concise speech of the gold-eyed man.   
  
Sleet looked at Alaris, letting her take the lead. So did everyone else.   
  
“We are looking for someone,” Alaris said without a flinch. “We were lead to believe he – or perhaps she – is in the area.”   
  
“Someone?” The chieftain arched a brow, clasping his hands behind his back as he circled around the table. “Or some thing? Thieves?”   
  
Alaris shook her head. “No. We seek nothing but this person. They are imperative to our quest.”   
  
Adlai tilted his head to the side, glancing past them as though seeking clarification of her words. “Malach!” he barked.   
  
“Sir.” The gold-eyed stranger – Malach, Sleet assumed – came to the forefront, dipping his head in a shallow bow. He spoke again, but this time it was in the Kurai's own language, one full of consonants more than vowels, the words halting and full of sharp tones.  
  
The two – chieftain and Malach – carried on a brief conversation before Malach nodded and turned toward the companions.   
  
“What is the nature of your quest?” he demanded, his body language stiff and reserved. But, Sleet noticed, he avoided Alaris' eyes.   
  
Don't say it, Sleet thought.   
  
“To save the world,” Alaris said.   
  
Sleet groaned, shoulders slumping. Could she have picked anything more ridiculous to say? Like the chieftain and his people would believe that their ragtag group planned on saving the entire world. Alaris had singlehandedly made them all look like an assortment of cracked pots. Not to mention even more suspicious than before.   
  
Malach certainly didn't look like he believed them as he turned toward the chieftain and relayed the information in their native tongue. Sleet watched as a mix of fury and disbelief washed over Adlai's face, his eyes narrowing. He snapped a response back to Malach, that Sleet wouldn't be surprised if it translated to: off with their heads!  
  
“We have heard rumors,” Malach said, carefully choosing his words with visible effort. “Traders have brought word of demons sweeping across the land. Is this true?”   
  
It was Sleet's turn to be surprised. Did they actually believe Alaris?   
  
“Yes,” the priestess answered. “And I am certain it won't be long before they find their way to this place, no matter how guarded you think it is.”   
  
Chieftain Adlai bristled. He'd understood at least part of what Alaris had said. “A threat?” he growled. “Spies?”  
  
“No,” Alaris said. “Not spies. We have no intention of betraying you. We only bring information.”   
  
Adlai barked out a noise of disbelief. “Information? What use 'ave outsiders in warning the Kurai?”   
  
Malach stirred, saying something to his chieftain, which caused Adlai's eyes to narrow. He snapped back, a rebuke perhaps and Malach tipped his head. Acquiescing.   
  
“What do you know of these demons?” Adlai demanded, abandoning his earlier question. “Speak and we might let you live.”   
  
Might? That was hardly reassuring. Sleet glanced at Alaris, but she didn't seem concerned. Her gaze did, however, keep wandering to Malach.  
  
“I know that they seek only destruction. I know that they cannot be reasoned with,” Alaris replied, tilting her chin upward. “I know that while they are mindless beasts, they have a purpose. They are beasts with a master.”   
  
“What is the name of this master?” Malach asked.   
  
Here, Alaris hesitated. A wise decision in Sleet's opinion. This was bigger than a mere brief explanation could cover.  
  
“One whose goals culminate in world domination, no matter what he may destroy or who he will kill to achieve them,” Alaris answered, vague enough that it didn't even touch upon Balaam and Frost and all of the intricacies.   
  
Adlai snorted. “And you think one of the Kurai will help?” He snorted again, making a dismissive motion with his hand. “Arrogant.” Disbelief was etched into the gesture.   
  
Frankly, if Sleet hadn't met Erebus for himself and watched Tawnry get destroyed by a bunch of angry demons, he wouldn't have believed her either.   
  
“Not the Kurai entirely. But one amongst your people may be able to help,” Alaris corrected, but she was losing the battle. Sleet could see it.   
  
Chieftain Adlai had closed his mind, and cared little for the events beyond the borders of Shadowglade.  
  
“Children's tales,” Adlai grunted, dropping down into his chair with a heavy noise. He ignored Malach, who was leaning toward him with intention to speak. “I no more believe your story t'an I did the traders.”   
  
Alaris took a step forward, beseeching, and the tension in the room rose another notch. Bad move, Sleet thought. The Kurai could easily take that as aggression.   
  
“You won't believe it a children's story when the demons destroy your home!” Alaris argued,, her words sharp and clipped.   
  
Adlai straightened, eyes narrowing. “Another threat?”  
  
The soldiers lining the wall behind Sleet and his companions snapped into alertness. Sleet's skin prickled as arrows were, once again, aimed between his shoulder blades.   
  
Alaris stood her ground. “A premonition. The very same thing that led me here, will lead the monsters here as well. There is no escape.”   
  
Commotion at the doorway behind them all took some of the steam out of Alaris' dire statement, and everyone turned to see what was happening. Sleet, trying to peer around Raven's bulk, made out another of the Kurai trying to push himself inside, past the soldiers who were being unhelpful.   
  
The newcomer was babbling in the Kurai's language which made it impossible to tell what he was saying, though Sleet did catch what sounded like two names: Malach and Adlai.   
  
The chieftain was on his feet in a moment, bellowing for someone, his voice echoing through the chamber. Silence fell as the newcomer was allowed inside, looking smug as he pushed his way through the prisoners until he stood in front of the chieftain. He was covered in sweat, as though he had run a great distance. But as he spoke, Chieftain Adlai's face went from angry to wary to alarm in the space of a few sentences.   
  
Malach, too, had visibly paled.   
  
Adlai burst into motion, more than Sleet thought the old man capable. His hand flung out, smacking the messenger across the face and sending him sprawling. Sleet flinched, edging toward Raven, as Adlai bellowed across the room once more. All Sleet recognized was Malach's name again and he definitely understood the furious point of a finger in their general direction.   
  
Beside him, he could sense Raven bristling with all sorts of defensive indignation. If that was a command to see to their deaths, then Sleet had no doubt Raven would fight tooth and nail before submitting. That thought was almost comforting.   
  
In the resulting melee, it would be easy enough for a thief to make himself scarce.   
  
_Coward_. Erebus sounded disgusted. _Do you always think of your own hide first?_   
  
Sleet arched a brow. ' _Did you forget the part where I'm a thief and trust no one_?'   
  
Erebus made a noise and cut himself off from the conversation. It was an eerie sensation, because it made the deity near-absent from Sleet's mind. He felt like there was an empty space in his head now, thoughts bouncing around like they had nowhere to go. It was an unusual, off balance feeling, and Sleet didn't appreciate it.   
  
Well, whatever. Let the parasite sulk then. Maybe if he whined to Aesir long enough, the big boss would reassign Erebus and Sleet would be free of this war nonsense.   
  
Malach nodded at whatever the chieftain said and then turned sharply, striding toward Sleet and his companions. He retained that pale, disturbed cast. He said something to the soldiers behind Sleet, and said soldiers started forward, not lowering his weapons.   
  
“What's going on?” Raven demanded, frame taut with tension.   
  
Malach glanced at him. “If you fight, we will kill you. Come peacefully and you will only be detained.”   
  
Alaris placed a calming hand on Raven's arm. “Until when?”   
  
“Until Chieftain Adlai has time to listen to the rest of your farfetched tale,” Malach replied, but he seemed skittish. He wouldn't come anywhere near Alaris, preferring instead to hover as far from her as he possibly could.   
  
Raven growled. “Alaris--”  
  
She shook her head. “We will go peacefully.”   
  
For once, Sleet was in perfect agreement with Raven. He didn't know what in the seven hells Alaris was thinking and he really wasn't interested in being caged in whatever the Kurai called a prison. He was a thief. He didn't do well behind bars.   
  
Nevertheless, they were once again herded through the winding corridors of Reiran, ringed by an armed Kurai escort and led by Malach. It was impossible to sense direction without visible windows to gauge where they were in the first place. The only impression Sleet could make was that they were going downward.   
  
He'd never known himself to be afraid of tight spaces or going underground before but right now, he didn't like heading downward. He didn't like not knowing what would serve as a Kurai prison and he didn't like how low their chances of escape were. He especially didn't like how easily Alaris kept thrusting them into worse situations.   
  
The Kurai were silent as they marched their prisoners downward. Not even Malach had anything to say.   
  
They passed countless doors and hallways and while some were marked with symbols in the Kurai language, it was impossible to tell where they led. The air within Reirain was warm and heavy, thick with smoke from the lanterns and a heavy incense. It tickled his throat, though no one else seemed to have a problem with it.   
  
Finally, they stopped in front of a thick door, bolted into the stone walls. Malach rapped on it with the hilt of his sword and barked a command. From the other side, Sleet could hear the sound of people conversing and the rattle of a lever in motion. The door opened with a raspy scrape and beyond it was the dungeon. Sleet's skin crawled.   
  
Here it was even darker. From peering around Raven's bulk, Sleet could see what amounted to six cells, three on each side. One torch was set at the end of the hall, and two more near the main door, but there were none for the individual cells. Apparently suffering in a barely lit environment was part of the Kurai's punishment.   
  
As Malach issued commands, they were parceled out among the cells. Ashur and Iblion were shoved into one, with Tungsten taking up residence across from them. Raven was also given one of his own, and Alaris as well. Sleet and Beryl found themselves sharing space on Raven's other side, and across from them was an empty cell.   
  
They didn't have much. A bucket in one corner and two pallets of cloth covered straw on the floor served as the only available furnishings.   
  
“How long do you expect us to wait?” Alaris asked, her voice carrying an odd echo.   
  
Malach, who had shooed out the rest of the guards save for one, turned away from the exit and back toward her. “Food will be sent. You are alive. Consider that blessing enough.”   
  
He left them alone in the dim, save for a single guard though Sleet couldn't see the need for even the one. Where could they go? How in the world could they escape through these bars? Then again they did have some offworldly help they could call upon. If his anima would ever get over his snit.  
  
Raven made a noise of irritation and Sleet heard a dull thump as the mercenary dropped onto his straw pallet. “Well, that worked out perfectly. I'm relieved that we didn't fight back.”   
  
Alaris sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “As confident as you are in your abilities, I don't think you are capable of taking down the Kurai's entire armed forces.”   
  
Raven snorted but said nothing else.   
  
Tungsten, who was in the cell furthest from Sleet and out of sight, offered up a tentative, “Is this part of the plan, Alaris-san?”   
  
“She doesn't have a plan,” Beryl said as he dropped down on his own pallet, folding his arms behind his head. “Any fool could see that.”   
  
Sleet leaned against the bars, trying to peer through the dim and examine the rest of the prison. It was all shaped of stone, save for the bars themselves which were metal and notched securely into the stone wall and ceiling. There was barely a handsbreadth between the bars. Neither he nor Beryl were small enough to squeeze between them.   
  
“It's impossible to truly plan,” Alaris said with a sigh. “I don't know how the animus is going to react. I don't know why the Kurai didn't kill us on sight. And I don't know what it is that has them so on edge.”   
  
Iblion came into view from the cell on Alaris' other side, leaning against the bars. “Malach is the animus.”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“This could be problematic,” Iblion mused. “But I can see where he knows something. He was very skittish around you, Alaris.”   
  
Sleet tested the solidity of the bars of his cell. They didn't so much as budge. Go figure. “There's no escaping these,” he informed them, though they'd probably drawn their own conclusions. “What the fuck are we going to do next?”   
  
“What else can we do?” Alaris asked, dropping back into the shadows of her cell and lowering herself onto her pallet. “We wait. Adlai will ask to speak to us again. I intend to repeat my earlier statements and then give him the incontrovertible truth.”   
  
Iblion's fingers rapped on the bars. “You will ask us to reveal ourselves as anima.”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“Risky,” Raven rumbled. “What little I know of the Kurai is that they are very, very superstitious. That might backfire, with them demanding our deaths.”   
  
“Then we'll have to fight our way free. If it comes to that.” Alaris sounded tired. “Until then, we wait. So get some sleep. That's all we can do right now.”   
  
Sleet didn't like this. Not one bit. They didn't have a plan. They were trapped underground. He was sharing a cell with Beryl. He didn't have any shoes.   
  
He turned away from the bars and dropped down onto the pallet Beryl hadn't claimed. The other thief was staring up at the ceiling, but he didn't look like he was about to start sleeping. He did, however, look as skittish as Sleet felt.   
  
With nothing to say to Beryl, Sleet curled on his side and stared at the wall. The stone was rough, like it had been hacked into the rock rather than smoothly hewn like the rest of Reiran. It was also cold to the touch. He wasn't really tired but there was nothing else to do.   
  
_You could practice_. All at once, Erebus' presence returned, though with a tangible, chilly distance.   
  
_'Oh, you're back_ ,' Sleet replied, lacking enthusiasm. ' _Practice what_?'  
  
There was a moment's pause, as though Erebus was gathering his patience. _Accessing the abilities our bond gives you so that you can call on them instinctively rather than only when your back is to the wall._  
  
Sleet sat up, leaning against the wall with his legs crossed in front of him. ' _The better to defeat Balaam, I assume.'  
  
You could stand to be prepared._  
  
Rolling his eyes, Sleet tipped his head back against the wall. ' _Since I have nothing better to do than why don't you show me?'  
  
We'll start with something easy. We'll start with the flame.   
  
'Flame?'   
  
Hold out your hand, palm up._  
  
Sleet frowned. He had no intentions of looking like a fool. He glanced at Beryl, but the blond thief was facing the wall. Only Alaris could see into his cell. Alaris and the Kurai guard, but he the latter was nearly asleep on his feet.  
  
 _Just do it._   
  
Setting his jaw, Sleet lifted his left hand, palm upward. ' _Now what?'  
  
Focus._  
  
Hmph. Easier said than done. Focus on what?   
  
_You should be able to feel the power within you. The potential for something. Maybe it's a squirm in your belly. An itch along your spine. A pressure in your ribcage._  
  
Unaccustomed to any sort of meditation, Sleet struggled to understand Erebus' words. How in the world was he supposed to find the power inside of him. His belly clenched, but then, he was hungry. His back itched, but he was pressed against a cold, rock wall with clothes in desperate need of a scrubbing. His chest felt tight, but the air here was thick.   
  
Sleet glared at his palm, fingers twitching. Nothing happened. He tried to will something into happening. What was he supposed to be accessing here?   
  
He tried to remember the battle against the chimaera. It was the first time he'd touched upon his so-called power. He remembered the chains sprouting out of thin air. He remembered Erebus sweeping down like black death. And he remembered fire, a sickly green flame.   
  
Hmm. Fire.   
  
A heat gathered in his palm which was itching. Tingling really.   
  
Sleet tilted his head. He twitched his fingers. Fire?   
  
With a rolling surge of power, almost tangible in the cold air, Sleet watched poison-green flame sprout to life on his hand, licking over his fingers though he couldn't feel it. His eyes widened and he clamped down on a startled shout. He shook his hand, but the flame didn't dissipate. That was a bit alarming.   
  
_Now concentrate on turning it off._  
  
Off? Sleet didn't know how he turned it on.   
  
He closed his fingers and formed a fist. The flames vanished. Was that conscious? He wasn't sure but it worked.   
  
_Hmm. Adequate. Now do it again._  
  
Sleet groaned, resisting the urge to bang his head against the wall. _'You're going to make me do this for hours, aren't you?'_  
  
Erebus sounded smug. _For as long as it takes. After all, you're the one who'd rather live. And learning how to access your abilities is a good way to start._  
  
By the pits. It was going to be a long night.   
  


****


	26. Wolf in the Fold - Chapter Five

The Kurai brought them something approximating dinner much later that evening. Or at least Sleet assumed it was late evening. It wasn't like he could look outside and see.   
  
The food was edible: roasted boar with thin slices of day-old bread and some fresh water. It was better than what Sleet expected to be served to prisoners. The Kurai who had delivered the food hadn't spoken a word, and left immediately afterward. They ignored Alaris' attempts to question them.   
  
They all ate in a sullen silence, not even Tungsten attempted starting up a conversation. As if galvanized by the food, however, Alaris' voice cut through the quiet, just as Sleet was sopping up the last of the boar juices with his bread.   
  
“Beryl, please check Sleet's wound.”   
  
Sleet blinked; Beryl echoed him. Somehow, in tandem, they both managed to betray their utter surprise. “What?”   
  
Shifting closer to the bars of her cell, Alaris tried to peer into theirs. “Make sure there is no infection and that it's healing properly. I can't see it from here and the last thing we need is to haul him out, sick with fever.”   
  
Sleet's gaze slid to Beryl, who met his look of distaste with one of his own.   
  
“Do I have to?” Beryl asked, wiping the back of his sleeve over his mouth.   
  
Raven barked a laugh. “You've already fucked each other. What's the difference?”   
  
“Raven!” Alaris hissed, his name a chastisement, though Sleet wasn't sure why she bothered. Thinking of Ashur's tender ears perhaps?   
  
Beryl smiled, though Raven couldn't see it, the smile itself edged with distaste, more for the mercenary than for Sleet. “Oh? Were you watching?” He dropped his tones to a low, inciting purr. “Did you enjoy the show?”   
  
Sleet heard a low growl, the sound of someone shoving themselves to his feet, and eagerly anticipated Raven's response. Alaris, however, ended their fun.   
  
“Stop goading him,” Alaris said. “And yes, as you are the only one sharing Sleet's cell, I need you to check it for me.”   
  
Beryl shoved himself to his feet with an audible exhale. “I don't remember agreeing to let you boss me around,” he muttered. But he still obeyed.   
  
Though reluctant, Sleet didn't protest as Beryl approached, instead pulling his tunic up and off. The faster they got this done, the faster he could get dressed again. It was still damn cold in here.   
  
“I don't see what she's so worried about,” Beryl said, getting closer so that he could peer at the wound in Sleet's shoulder and the gash on his belly, both heavily wrapped in bandages. “You're not bleeding into the bandages and you don't smell like infection.”   
  
Sleet looked down, idly poking at the bindings around his shoulder. He didn't hurt so he supposed that was a good thing. “All signs that I'm not going to die anytime soon. Poor Raven. He'll be so disappointed.”   
  
Beryl cracked a genuine smile and chuckled. “Poor Raven indeed.” He sat back on his haunches, turning his head toward the bars. “Seems fine to me,” he said, raising his voice to be heard.   
  
Sleet pulled his tunic back down.   
  
“Thank you, Beryl,” Alaris replied, and she actually sounded like she meant it. Sleet couldn't remember the last time they'd thanked him.   
  
Beryl made a noncommittal noise and returned his attention to Sleet, arms draped over his knees. “Interesting.”   
  
Sleet's brow wrinkled. “What is?” he asked, and wrapped his arms around his torso, trying to return the vague semblance of warmth he'd had earlier.   
  
“You.” Green eyes were sharp and assessing. “The mage, I get. The mercenary, too. Even the dull-eyed brat makes a bit of sense. But not you.”   
  
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”   
  
Beryl thumbed his chin. “You're no hero. Not any more than I am at any rate. Why are you with them?”   
  
Like he had much of a choice. “Did you forget the part where I'm apparently attached to a parasite who is mankind's only hope?”  
  
“No, I got it.” Beryl snorted. “What I don't understand is what it has to do with you. No one's holding a blade to your neck, forcing you to help them.”   
  
Sleet shrugged, inspecting the bars for the fifth time. “What else would I do? Seemed like a good idea at the time.”   
  
“Bullshit.” Beryl dropped back until he was seated on his ass, legs curled in front of him. He didn't seem to mind the dirt-brushed floor of their cell. “You put yourself in danger on a whim. Tell me another, Sleet. If there's one thing a good thief does, it's look out for his own ass.”   
  
He rolled his eyes. “Then it's none of your business.”   
  
“You're trying to find Frost, aren't you?”   
  
Sleet startled. “What makes you say that?”   
  
Beryl rolled his shoulders. “Why else? It's the same reason I was trailing you.”   
  
Was he that transparent? Sleet turned and dropped down onto the pallet, trying to burrow against the thin blanket covering it. “Frost means nothing to me.”   
  
“Bullshit.” Beryl's tone sounded all too smug. “Otherwise, you would have attacked him back in Nename.”  
  
Sleet sat up like a shot, swiveling around to face Beryl. “Were you watching us?”   
  
“Have been. For a while.” Beryl shrugged again and scooted back to sit on his own pallet, leaning against the stone wall. “You guys are the most conspicuous group of so-called heroes I've ever seen. No wonder Frost finds you so easily. And don't change the subject.”   
  
He worked his jaw for several long moments. “I think you're missing something,” Sleet bit out, his skin crawling at the thought of Beryl watching him from the shadows. “Frost is the one who couldn't kill me.”   
  
“I always thought Frayr had better taste than that, but it appears he's blind when it comes to you.”   
  
Sleet's eyes narrowed, but he wasn't sure which statement to pounce upon. Beryl's opinions of Frost's taste. Or the fact he'd called Frost by another name. Thinking back, Frayr sounded a bit familiar. Had he heard Beryl say it before?  
  
He tilted his head, choosing to ignore his ego for the moment and concentrate on his lack of information. “Frayr?”  
  
Beryl cursed under his breath. “Slip of the tongue,” he bit out. “If you don't know, then I'm not going to tell you.”   
  
“I can guess that Frayr is Frost,” Sleet replied. “What I don't know is why he has two names.”   
  
The other thief barked out a laugh. “Two? He's told you nothing, has he?” An amused, smug smirk curved Beryl's lips. “Frost has so many names I don't think even he knows who he used to be.” He tilted his head back against the wall. “Hmm. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you are just a toy to him. Just like the rest of us.”   
  
Indignation bristled inside of Sleet, though why he should bother, he didn't know. He sneered, lurching forward--  
  
“Shh,” Beryl said, before Sleet could get out so much as a word, suddenly going still. He held up a hand and cocked his head toward the bars.   
  
“What?”   
  
Beryl shifted as the sound of metal grinding and wood creaking echoed in the enclosed prison. “Someone's coming.”   
  
Sleet lowered his voice, shifting toward the bars for a better look. “Who is it?” he whispered. Beryl had the better view of the main doorway from his side of the cell then Sleet did at present.   
  
The other thief pressed his lips together, lidding his eyes to narrow slits as though feigning sleep. Sleet quickly did the same. The hours surely had to be late, too late for any sort of interrogation. Best to take any possible assassins by surprise.   
  
He heard a low voice speak to the Kurai on guard before the door opened again, one of the two presumably leaving. Then there were footsteps in the narrow corridor. They paused outside Sleet and Beryl's cell for a moment before moving on. Clearly, the visitor was searching for one of them in particular.   
  
Sleet popped one eye open, leaning to peer out the cell bars. His jaw nearly dropped, though he shouldn't have been surprised.   
  
“Who is it?” Beryl asked, voice barely carrying to Sleet.   
  
“It's Malach,” he whispered back. “And he's standing in front of Alaris' cell.”   
  
Beryl shot him an alarmed look but Sleet shook his head. He wanted to hear whatever it was Malach planned on saying.   
  
“I know you're not sleeping,” the Kurai said. “I can sense it.”   
  
“Can you now?” Alaris asked, her footsteps announcing her approach to the bars. She pulled her hair over one shoulder, eying Malach critically. “What do you sense?”   
  
Malach stiffened. “I'm asking the questions here,” he retorted. “Why are you really here?”   
  
“I told your chieftain already. We're looking for someone.” Alaris tilted her head, eyes somehow glowing in the dim light. “And I think you know who.”   
  
Surprisingly, Malach held his ground. “Tell me about this war.”   
  
“What don't you know?”   
  
Sleet furrowed his brow. Alaris was being deliberately obtuse. It made more sense for her to try and convince Malach to join them. Not play these word games. What exactly were her plans?   
  
Malach folded his arms over his chest. “Why do you think you're the only ones who can stop it.”   
  
“You know why.” Alaris blatantly looked Malach over, from head to toe. “You've heard him. You felt it. You can sense it. Why pretend you can't?”   
  
Sleet watched as Malach took a half-step backward before visibly asserting control over himself and standing up straight.   
  
“Why do you ignore him?” Alaris pressed on, like someone finding the weakness in a fortress wall and relentlessly hammering at it. “What are you afraid of? Why won't you listen?”   
  
“I don't know what you mean.”   
  
“I think you do.” Alaris dropped her voice even further, as if coaxing a frightened child. It was fascinating the way she wove her words together and Sleet watched, intrigued. “You aren't alone, Malach. You need us. And we, in turn, need you.”   
  
Despite the dim and the distance, Sleet could see the shudder race through Malach's frame. The way every motion betrayed his rejection of her claim.   
  
“You are mistaken,” Malach replied, tone tight with disdain and something else. Fear perhaps. “You need our mercy. And I need nothing from you.”   
  
He turned on a heel and strode away from Alaris' cell with neither a backward glance nor a sideways look into Sleet's cell. He paid nothing else any attention, all but fleeing from the prison, the main door slamming shut behind him. Moments later, their Kurai guard returned, but Malach didn't.   
  
Silence descended in the small prison.   
  
“Well,” Sleet said, shifting back against the wall of his cell. “You're recruiting pitch is as effective as ever.”   
  
Alaris shot him a glare. “It is enough that he knows the truth. Whatever barrier's he's built are growing weaker.”   
  
“I really don't see where you have the time for these word games,” Beryl said with a noisy, pointed yawn. “Would've been faster just to whip out one of your gods and show him.”   
  
“It's not the right time.” Alaris disappeared from Sleet's view, and he heard the soft whump as she settled on her pallet. “Go to sleep. I have a feeling tomorrow will be the real challenge.”   
  
Beryl snorted but he said nothing else. The others must have been truly sleeping, for they said nothing else either. Or they simply didn't care.   
  
What made Alaris think tomorrow would be a challenge?   
  
_Because despite whatever caused Chieftain Adlai to cut his interrogation short, he will have no interest in having outsiders within his home for long. He's sure to finish the interrogation tomorrow._  
  
Sleet wrinkled up his nose. ' _Oh joy.'_  
  
He slumped down onto his pallet, trying to get comfortable with his aching shoulder and throbbing belly, while wrapping a corner of the thin blanket around his body. His feet were freezing without any sort of boot. He'd even take a pair of the Kurai's moccasins at this point!  
  
Closing his eyes, Sleet tried to force himself into sleep. Unfortunately, it was a long time in coming.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
Tungsten woke to the jarring noise of someone banging a weapon against the bars of his cell and shouting at him. He didn't understand the words, but the intention was pretty clear.   
  
He struggled to wipe the sleep from his eyes, his thoughts in a fog. It was impossible to tell how long he'd been sleeping, but it felt like a couple of hours at best. Every muscle ached, he was starving, and the thin blanket wasn't nearly enough to keep him warm. His only saving grace was that he wasn't lonely. Asclepius had been willing to keep him company, even if only in his own head.   
  
Tungsten sat up as the door to his cell swung open and two Kurai came inside, jerking him to his feet.   
  
“You don't have to be so rude,” he admonished, stumbling as his body had yet to catch up to his mind, which still wasn't entirely awake. “I would have come without you forcing me.”   
  
Of course, the Kurai didn't understand Common, save for Malach, so they didn't answer him. Nor apologize for their rough handling. Tungsten was tugged and shoved out of his cell where he joined an equally irate Alaris and Beryl, who didn't look bothered at all. Then again, Beryl was a thief and Tungsten imagined that he'd spent time in his fair share of prisons.  
  
Unlike Tungsten, who'd never so much as broken the most petty of rules. He'd only ever walked by the city's local garrison. He was not at all used to being behind bars and he did not like the feeling of them. Being trapped and confined was very uncomfortable.   
  
“What's going on?” Tungsten asked. He coughed, his throat feeling thick and dry. By the gods, was he getting ill?   
  
Alaris' frown deepened and her gaze shifted to Malach, who had his back to them. “Chieftain Adlai is ready to hear our story again.”   
  
The dull clank of a lock being engaged echoed in the hall. The Kurai were closing the door to Sleet's cell again, leaving Sleet inside.   
  
“What about Sleet-san?”   
  
She shook her head, but it was Malach who answered. “I'm sure by now you have all collaborated your stories. We don't need all of you to tell the same lie.”   
  
“And you assume we won't escape unless we have everyone in our party,” Beryl muttered, but Tungsten heard him just fine, despite the cotton in his ears.   
  
Malach ignored Beryl's comment. He gestured to his people, and Tungsten, Alaris, and Beryl were herded out of the prison by the Kurai. Once again, they were led through the twisting, confusing corridors of Reiran. Tungsten snuck a glance at Alaris, but she might have been made of stone herself as little as her expression betrayed. Beryl, for the most part, didn't seem fazed at all.   
  
The only good thing about the walk was that it helped Tungsten finish waking up. His thoughts finally cleared and he stopped stumbling.   
  
Malach led them to a room different than the huge meeting hall from before. This room was smaller and less decorated. There was only a single thick rug on the floor and a tapestry on each wall.   
  
Chieftain Adlai was sitting at a table, breakfast laid out before him, and he was flanked by two Kurai guards. Tungsten and his companions were planted in front of the table, without chairs, and two more Kurai took up guard at the door behind them. Malach stood just behind Adlai, like a servant or something similar. Interesting.   
  
“You have ten minutes,” Adlai said without so much as looking up at them, picking up a piece of fried bacon and nibbling on it. “Convince me.”   
  
Tungsten's belly gave an audible growl. The whole room smelled of a delicious breakfast and what they'd been fed last night didn't come close to this steaming, fresh food on the table in front of them. Food, he assumed, they weren't to touch.   
  
In the back of his mind, Asclepius giggled at him, despite the seriousness of the situation. _You and your stomach_ , she teased.   
  
_'Hush. I'm trying to listen_ ,' Tungsten retorted, cheeks burning.   
  
Beside Tungsten, Beryl opened his mouth. Alaris' hand came down on the thief's shoulder, squeezing warningly.   
  
“I won't even need that long,” Alaris replied, shoulders high and firm. “This war is not of our choosing, but we have no choice in participating. We are not, however, alone. Aesir has seen fit to give us help.”   
  
Tungsten watched as the chieftain paused mid-bite. “You speak forgotten names.”   
  
“Not forgotten,” Alaris corrected, holding his gaze. “Abandoned.”  
  
The chieftain lowered his utensil. “Aesir,” he said, and his tone held so much contempt, “has never cared for his creations before. What makes now different?”   
  
“Because even a god knows how to save his own hide,” Beryl muttered.   
  
Tungsten looked at the small thief in surprise. He wasn't aware that Beryl knew the whole story. Who had he been talking to? Raven perhaps. While the mercenary despised Sleet, he didn't seem to dislike Beryl as much.   
  
“What does he mean?” Adlai demanded.   
  
Alaris tossed Beryl an irritated glare before exhaling. “He means that though we face war, there is more at stake. This is not a battle between humans and weapons of metal, but a battle of the gods.”   
  
The chieftain snorted disdain. “So you claim.” He picked up his utensil again, spearing a piece of tasty-looking bacon that made Tungsten's belly grumble again.   
  
“So I prove,” Alaris said, inclining her head.   
  
Tungsten's skin tingled as the press and feel of magic suddenly filled the air. Ah. Now was the time to bring out their anima then. Trust Alaris to make it as theatrical as necessary.   
  
' _Will you be kind enough to join us, my dear_?' Tungsten asked.   
  
The only answer Asclepius gave him was a soft, excitable giggle.   
  
Tungsten looked around him. The nameless Kurai noticed the change in the air. Adlai noticed the moment the dishware and utensils on his table began to vibrate. Malach shifted, his gaze on Alaris, his lips pressed into a thin line. Of them all, Malach was the most tense. Understandable considering he was suppressing his anima's attempts to contact him.   
  
“Chieftain Adlai,” Alaris began, tilting her chin upward. “I'd like you to meet Hephaestion, the healer.” One hand gestured to her left where said deity began to shimmer into being, taking far longer than the usual pop into existence the anima employed.   
  
A wave of powerful magic swept into the small room, cascading over Tungsten's body and making the tiny hairs rise on end. Not to be outdone, Tungsten gestured to the blank space on his right.   
  
“And by your leave, I'd like you to meet Ascplepius, guardian of life,” he said, knowing that his dear one would happily take her cue.   
  
Unlike Hephaestion's slow and dramatic entrance, Asclepius chose to pop into being with a shower of sparkles and a happy hop. She grinned, waving at Adlai as though they were old friends reunited, and immediately cuddled up to Tungsten's side.   
  
There was a long moment of stunned silence. Malach had gone white as a cloud, taking a step backward. Adlai sprang to his feet, chair toppling behind him. Their Kurai guards muttered anxiously amongst themselves, clutching their weapons.   
  
“They will not harm you,” Alaris said. “That is not why we have come.”   
  
Anger rose over Adlai's face like a swift storm cloud. “You expect me to believe your illusions are deities? We are not fools!”   
  
At Tungsten's side, Asclepius squeezed his arm. “I'm getting the feeling he doesn't believe in much of anything anymore,” she murmured under her breath, voice going no further than Tungsten.   
  
“Not many of us do,” Tungsten admitted. And it was the truth. Corynth, as a whole, had forgotten and abandoned the old gods a long time ago. Only mages and priests, few and far between anymore, held an inkling of those old beliefs.   
  
“We are no mere illusion,” Hephaestion replied, his deep voice echoing around the room. “Alaris speaks the truth. There is a war and the humans have been caught up in it. We are here to help, loaning our power to defeat the greater threat.”   
  
Chieftain Adlai leaned forward, his palms planted on the table. “Here we are protected. We care nothing for the war beyond Reiran. It will not touch us.”   
  
“Arrogant of you, to think that you're perfectly safe here,” Beryl commented, with a sort of rude nonchalance that appalled Tungsten. “I'm sure Gwartney thought the same thing. And Nename. And Tawnry.”   
  
“We're not asking for the help of the Kurai,” Alaris hastily added, as Kurai's angered complexion deepened with every word passing Beryl's lips. “Only the one. The one of you that is an animus like Tungsten and myself.”  
  
Adlai's eyes narrowed into thin slits of furious ocher. “The Kurai do not tolerate magic use. The Kurai do not accept such twisting of the land's energy.” One fist slammed into the table, making his cup topple over, spilling a honey-colored liquid over the top. “I will personally slay any Kurai who dares claim otherwise!”   
  
Well. No wonder the animus – _Malach_ – was hiding it, if this was the sort of reaction he could expect.   
  
Tungsten glanced at Malach, who was visibly ill. He had taken another step backward, one hand dropping to his sword, while the other rubbed at his forehead. Perhaps his anima was trying to speak to him again and he was blocking. Either way, Malach didn't look inclined to listen. And why would he? With his own leader looking fit to kill.   
  
Alaris remained unshaken. She lowered her gaze to the chieftain. “Once you believed in the old gods.”  
  
“Once we were fools,” Adlai spat, and dropped down into his chair. “Take your magic tricks and leave Reiran. I'll have none of your kind here.” He began to eat again, tearing into his food with such determination that Tungsten knew he would not say anything more to them. He did, however, spit out several more commands to the surrounding Kurai.   
  
Malach snapped to attention, scrambling to obey and lacking his usual self-assured grace. “Come with me,” he said, pushing past all of them. “We'll collect your companions and escort you out of Shadowglade.”   
  
A Kurai took each of them by the arm, tugging them out of the chieftain's private dining room and into the main corridors. They set a hustling pace, Tungsten nearly tripping on the lengths of his robe. His hem was started to fray and stain from their travels.   
  
“This is a mistake,” Alaris said, an edge of agitation in her voice. “You know that as well as I do. We need you, Malach.”   
  
His jaw set, his gaze turning toward her with such vehemence that Tungsten's breath caught. Alaris shouldn't provoke him.   
  
“I don't know what you speak of,” Malach growled, gold eyes flat. “And you would be wise to keep your silence.”   
  
“Why? Your chieftain has already spoken. We are to be escorted out of Shadowglade.”   
  
Malach halted, whirling to face Alaris and towering over her by nearly a head. “By his mercy, you have been given your lives. But I can't guarantee them if you keep spouting such sacrilege.”   
  
Alaris tilted her chin. “Will you kill us yourself?” Her voice was soft, for all that it was challenging. “No. I don't think you will. Because we know the truth that eludes you.”   
  
Malach had grown pale again, but his pupils were blown wide, like someone high on the opiates trickling in from the east. Tungsten feared that this confrontation would turn physically violent soon. Alaris was too skilled at needling open wounds.   
  
“He's a stubborn one, isn't he?” Asclepius mock-whispered to Tungsten, snuggling up to his side. “Probably only Sleet rivals him for mulishness. I really feel for Erebus now.”   
  
The rock walls around them gave an abrupt tremor.   
  
The hall went silent. Even Malach and Alaris ceased their stare down, gazes sweeping around the corridor.   
  
“What was that?” Beryl demanded. “Is Balaam here?”   
  
“That is no attack,” Hephaestion said, grabbing Alaris' arm and dragging her closer to him. “There is no magic in the air. No sense of another deity.”   
  
Another violent rumble nearly tossed Tungsten from his feet. He reached for the wall to steady himself, Asclepius stumbling against him.   
  
“No,” Malach said, shaking his head sharply in denial. “It is too soon!” He turned, suddenly barking orders to his Kurai subordinates, hand gesturing this way and that.   
  
“What does he mean 'too soon'?” Beryl demanded.   
  
The ground lurched. Tungsten lost his footing, crashing down hard. Flakes of dirt and stone rained down upon them. It felt as if the very hallway was rolling, shaking left and right. Something crashed in the distance. The rock walls rattled.   
  
Many of them lost their footing, tumbling to the floor, struggling to stay upright. Tungsten was one of these, everything around him trembling so violently that it felt like it was shaking the very breath from him.   
  
Above them, the stone cracked, raining down larger chunks of rock on them. One pinged Tungsten in the forehead, blood instantly coursing free.   
  
“Asclepius! Shield us! Now!” Hephaestion shouted, throwing himself over Alaris and physically protecting her while the other Kurai shouted in alarm.   
  
Another piece of stone broke off from the roof ahead and before Asclepius could get her shield up, it struck Tungsten across the head. His world spun, pain stabbing through his skull. He dropped, screaming and shouting like dull echoes.   
  
And then there was darkness.   
  


****


	27. Wolf in the Fold - Chapter Six

His world was chaos.   
  
Sleet woke with a groan, feeling pummeled by a hammer, his head spinning. He blinked, but couldn't see anything past the darkness. He coughed, his throat dry and his lips caked with stone dust. Something pinned down his left arm. He jerked it free, heard the crackle of rock sliding against itself.   
  
What the fuck just happened?   
  
Sleet groaned, rubbing knuckles over his eyes. They stung and no matter how much he blinked, he still couldn't see. The torches had gone out in whatever caused his world to toss and churn.   
  
Trying to move was troublesome. Sleet searched with his hands, attempting to feel his way out of the limited confines of his current cage. He hoped that the bars had fallen as well. The idea of being trapped underground, destined to suffocate or be crushed to death was altogether unpleasant. In fact, the very thought of it made his spine crawl.   
  
_You could use the flame, you know._  
  
Pity that the caved-in ceiling couldn't knock the deity right out of his skull.   
  
_'What flame?'_ Sleet demanded, gritting through his proverbial teeth.   
  
Erebus sighed, the sound like a gust of wind over Sleet's ears. _The flame I spent four hours last night teaching you how to master._  
  
Oh, right. That flame.   
  
Despite the pain pounding through his skull, Sleet sat back on his heels and brought up his hand. He tried to concentrate, recalling what had helped him draw the flame to his fingers the first time. Brimstone and fire, the sharp scent of sulphur, and the heat pouring into his palm.  
  
Green fire burst into life, illuminating Sleet's surroundings and turning his skin a sickly shade. Hmm. Well, that was useful. He looked around, trying to get a handle on an escape.   
  
At present, he was in a pocket of space surrounded by bits of broken rock, some jagged, others more rounded. There was a small opening to his left, just large enough for him to squeeze through, and at the end, he caught the glint of metal. Fallen metal at that.   
  
Thank the gods. An escape.   
  
Sleet flicked his fingers, let the fire dance across them, before twisting his wrist. The flame leapt into the air and formed a glowing sphere. Neat trick.   
  
_You're welcome._  
  
Sleet ignored Erebus and started to creep forward, hoping that he wouldn't disturb anything and cause an avalanche of rock to crash down on his head. He also hoped that he wasn't the only survivor. The only thing worse than dying in the dark confines of of a cave would be dying alone in one. Trapped underground. Forever.   
  
He shuddered again.   
  
Beyond the collapsed bars, which had fallen outward and now lodged against the wall on the opposite side, there was a bit more space to move. The fallen bars of all the cells had created a walkway of sorts, where the metal kept heavier pieces of rock from littering the usual walkway. How convenient.   
  
Sleet crawled, on hands and feet, toward what he knew to be Raven's cell. “Is anyone else alive?” he called out, his voice oddly muffled.   
  
“We are,” someone answered, voice equally dulled. “Barely however.”   
  
It took a moment, but Sleet finally recognized the voice as Iblion's. Too tenor to be Raven, too strong to be Ashur. And by 'we' Sleet assumed that meant Ashur as well.   
  
Cursing as his palm landed on a sharp rock, Sleet inched further forward. “Raven?”   
  
No answer. Hmm. How upset would Alaris be if her pet mercenary died?   
  
“I can get us out, Sleet,” Iblion added, his voice carrying with more strength now. “Check on Raven instead.”   
  
“Stick me with the scut work,” Sleet muttered under his breath and flicked another ball of green flame into the air. This he left to hover in the hallway while the other followed him, always staying just a pace ahead of him.   
  
The bars to Raven's cell had fallen just like Sleet's. Unfortunately, his door had not been knocked open, which meant Sleet had to pull out his lockpicking needle from his sleeve. He peered into the cell for a moment, catching a glimpse of a crumpled dark form and a hint of fabric. It wasn't moving however.   
  
For a long moment, there was no sound save that of Sleet's pick scraping at the old, near-rusted lock and whatever rumbles Iblion was causing in an attempt to extract himself and Ashur. If Raven were breathing, Sleet couldn't hear it.   
  
With a click, the lock gave way and Sleet scooted back, out of the way of the door falling open nearly on top of him. It hit the stone with a dull clank and provided a handy ramp for climbing up into Raven's cell. They'd have to push it back up and lock it into place later if they wanted to get back down the hall. Sleet was pretty certain it was the only way out.   
  
Coughing some more, Sleet scampered down the ramp made by Raven's cell bars and skidded to a halt on his rump at the bottom of the cell. He winced, pain radiating up his back, and grudgingly shifted to hands and knees. Raven's cell ended up more open than his, a large slab of rock providing a ceiling of sorts. As he got closer to the cotton-covered bundle, Raven's blood-streaked face came into light.   
  
“Oi,” Sleet said, slapping Raven's cheek with a bit more force than was necessary. “You alive?”   
  
Raven's cheek was warm. When Sleet leaned closer, he could barely detect the sound of his inhalations. Alive then. But for how long, Sleet couldn't say. He wasn't a doctor by any means.   
  
He prodded Raven in the shoulder. “Wake up. I can't carry you.”   
  
Raven groaned, twitched away from him, but his eyes didn't open. Huffing in annoyance, Sleet abandoned his attempts to wake the mercenary for a moment and checked for obvious injuries. Another flick of his fingers sent another green flame sphere into the air, illuminating the area better. That was when he saw it.   
  
“Damn,” Sleet breathed, and scooted toward Raven's feet. The mercenary's left leg was completely pinned beneath a fall of rubble from the knee down. Heavy stones, too, that wouldn't be easy for Sleet to lift on his own.   
  
Behind him, Raven groaned. “What th' fuck, 'appened?” he asked, voice slurred and thick with pain.   
  
“Don't know,” Sleet replied, glancing over his shoulder. “But you're nice and stuck. In pain?”   
  
“Can't feel my leg.” Raven tried to move, only to hiss in pain as his leg jerked and he flattened himself against the ground once more. “Shit.”   
  
“Was it an attack?” Came Ashur's quavery voice from just down the hall. He, too, coughed, the dust from the rubble clogging his lungs.   
  
“No.” Stones shifting around joined Iblion's answer. “I felt no magic or Balaam's presence. This was not of Balaam's doing. Or magical in nature.”   
  
Sleet pondered Raven's predicament. “That means it's natural. What's it called... quake?” He'd heard of such things happening before, but never this far west. It was always stories from travelers who lived in the distant mountains.   
  
_An earthquake_ , Erebus clarified. _Which means you need to get out of Reiran as soon as possible. There will be aftershocks which will unsettle anything already unstable._  
  
“Got any good news?” Sleet demanded aloud.   
  
“What?” Raven asked, and tried to move again, only to barely muffle a cry of pain as he wrenched his body too hard.   
  
“Nothing,” Sleet retorted. “And quit moving before you hurt something worse. Erebus, show up already. I can't get him out myself.”   
  
There was a tiny pop of displaced air before Erebus appeared in the tiny space already crowded by Sleet and Raven. “Your wish is my command,” the deity said, in a voice too saccharine to be genuine. “We'd have an easier time of this if Heimdal were here.”   
  
“Well, he's not. So help me dig him out!”   
  
Those eerie gold eyes turned to Sleet with a startled look. He ignored Erebus however. So what if he was growing agitated. He didn't like the sound of those 'aftershocks' and the longer he was trapped under ground, the more his skin crawled.   
  
Gritting his teeth, Sleet focused on unpinning Raven's leg. The faster he freed the mercenary, the faster they could all get back out under open sky. Moments later, Erebus joined him.   
  
Raven hissed under his breath, every lifted stone only jarring his crushed limb. It took some careful maneuvering, pausing every time the rocks shifted, but eventually they managed to get Raven free. Erebus dragged him loose, Sleet called up another flame, and together they crouched over Raven's limb, peering at it.   
  
Blood shone wet and dark through the rip in his trousers. Sleet couldn't see any bone, and some light, tentative prodding proved no bone was sticking through flesh. But he suspected Raven's ankle was most definitely broken, and perhaps his leg bone had a crack in it. Ouch.   
  
“Can't you do anything?” Sleet asked his anima.   
  
“I'm not a healer.” Erebus shook his head, then reached for his cloak, tearing off long strips of it. “If we can get to Hephaestion, however, he can get Raven at least walking.”   
  
Raven tilted his head back, breathing sharp and erratic. “Just bind it. It's only pain.”   
  
“Only pain,” Sleet mocked with a snort. “And you call me masochistic.”   
  
“I don't seek it,” Raven retorted and bit his lip as Erebus started wrapping the torn pieces of his cloak around the mercenary's leg.   
  
If Raven was willing to banter around with Sleet, then he was in no danger of going unconscious on them any time soon. Sleet left Erebus to his half-skilled doctoring and glanced over his shoulder. The flickering green orbs he'd left dangling in the air illuminated Iblion and Ashur coming into view, dust-caked and rumpled.   
  
“You two okay?”   
  
Green eyes regarded Sleet for a long moment before Iblion jerked his head in a curt nod. “Battered and bruised but no noteworthy injuries.”   
  
“We can't linger,” Ashur added, voice hoarse. “The aftershocks could be any moment now. And they are significantly more dangerous.”   
  
Sleet arched a brow. “How do you know?”   
  
Ashur's gaze shifted away. “I read a lot.”   
  
“He's good to go,” Erebus announced, gathering their attention. “But walking is out of the question.”   
  
Iblion glanced around the opening to Raven's cell, measuring the breadth of it with his eyes. “I can support him.”   
  
“Good,” Sleet replied, and edged past all of them, sliding between Ashur and Iblion and scooting down the cell door to the cluttered hallway beyond. “You follow me and I'll mark the way with flame. Easier for all of us this way.”   
  
Murmured encouragement followed in his wake. Behind him, he heard the sound of them skittering over rocks, Raven's low cursing, Ashur's even lower commentary. Sleet could feel Erebus' presence with a sort of sixth sense, easily able to measure the distance between himself and his anima.   
  
It was an altogether strange situation for Sleet. Somehow, he found himself leading and being followed. Why didn't he just find his own way out earlier? Why did he bother to care if the others were alive or crushed?   
  
Both were queries Sleet wasn't sure he wanted to answer. Focusing on the task at hand was much less panic-inducing. So he peered into the gloom, picked his way over and over fallen rock, and tasted the air for the slightest puff of fresh current. There had to be some way back to freedom. Or Sleet was going to die trying.   
  
Though he'd honestly prefer it without dying.   
  


o0o0o

  
“How are you doing, Asclepius?”   
  
“I've been better,” the demi-goddess replied with a musical laugh that completely underscored the strain of her words.   
  
Even in the pale light provided by Hephaestion's staff, Malach could see the sweat beading on the slim woman's forehead, and the waver in her arms.   
  
“How long can you hold the shield?” he asked.   
  
Asclepius tossed him a shaky smile. “As long as I need to. But I'd be very, very happy if I didn't have to.” Above them, rocks shifted and clunked against the translucent barrier protecting them from imminent crushing. “How's Tungsten?”   
  
“He'll live,” the priestess, Alaris, answered from where she knelt next to the fallen mage. “It's only a bump on the head. He'll wake up soon and suffer from an ache at best.”   
  
“I should have gotten the shield up sooner,” Asclepius fretted.   
  
“Nonsense,” Hephaestion replied dismissively, rising to his feet and pacing the length of the limited confines of the protective bubble. “You did well enough to expand it as far as you did. And you covered everyone. A feat for such a young one as yourself.”   
  
The god was right, of course. Not only had Asclepius managed to cover them all with her barrier, but it also extended down the hallway in both directions a good distance. Enough that Malach could get a fair idea of the best route for them to take in an attempt to get out of here. Though just beyond the shimmer of the shield he could see fallen rock and collapsed ceilings.   
  
He hoped that Chieftain Adlai and his aides had not been crushed. He dreaded the thought of Dror rising to command so soon. Dror was most certainly not ready and his first order of business would be to kill Alaris and her companions, though they had done nothing worth murder. Malach's annoyance at their presence didn't count.   
  
_Acknowledge me and I could be of aid here._  
  
His mental barriers restored themselves with a violent slam, the metaphorical thud echoing around Malach's thoughts and making him wince. The voice faded to a mere trickle of presence, but the pain spiking behind Malach's eyes returned full force. It was getting harder and harder to block the voice out.   
  
“Admirable to be sure,” Malach said, overloud perhaps but anything to distract himself from the voice. “But as she said, her strength won't last forever and we are still in danger. The quake wasn't the worst of it.”   
  
Immediately, every eye focused on him, including a somewhat bleary Tungsten, though it was Alaris who actually spoke. “What do you mean?”   
  
“You knew this was coming, didn't you?” the small male demanded before Malach could get in an answer. “Is what why the Kurai are so twitchy?”   
  
Malach ignored the blond completely. “Aftershocks,” he clarified and shifted his attention to the mage. “Can you stand?”   
  
“Yes. I think so,” Tungsten rose shakily to his feet, wobbling a few steps closer to Asclepius. “How are you holding up, my dear?”   
  
“Never better.” Asclepius grinned brightly, but her elbows gave a telltale tremble. Another beaded droplet of sweat worked its way down her cheek, her curls loosing some of their energetic bounce.   
  
The small blond suddenly appeared in front of Malach, glaring up at him, defiant. “You knew,” he repeated, not question this time but accusation.   
  
All eyes turned toward Malach, even that of his Kurai compatriot, who understood nothing of the Common speech but could read body language well enough. The blond was lucky he wasn't considered a threat.   
  
“That is hardly the issue here and none of your concern,” Malach dismissed, turning away from the thief and focusing on the others. “Rhode will lead. He knows Reiran best.”   
  
He shifted his attention to the aforementioned Kurai, gesturing Rhode to come closer and shifting to their own language. “How far are we from the surface?”   
  
Rhode tilted his head, brown eyes narrowed and thoughtful. “Rather close. For obvious reasons, we've always kept the chieftain's residence near an emergency tunnel.” He paused, gaze wandering to the straining goddess. “With any luck, we'll find it unobstructed.”   
  
“Good. Take the lead. We'll follow.”  
  
Rhode nodded and picked his way across the stone-littered flooring, skirting between the milling members of their party to the distant edge of Asclepius' barrier. Malach left him to it.   
  
“Leaven, back up Rhode. Nytire, you're with me.” His fellow Kurai jerked their heads in assent and moved into position, Nytire hovering at Malach's right flank.   
  
Alaris and her party watched the proceedings, and Malach tried to ignore the piercing nature of the priestess' gaze. He was already on edge and his tension only increased as he waited for her to bring up the truth again, to remind him of what she knew.   
  
At the back of his mind, the voice pushed at his mental barriers, trying again to reach his active thoughts. Malach's head pulsed with pain. He had to get away from these foreigners as soon as possible. The voice was stronger in proximity to them.   
  
“How's your control?” Malach asked the goddess. “Can you drop the shield behind us as we move forward to save your strength?”   
  
Asclepius nodded, offering another wan smile. “Of course I can. What sort of goddess would I be if I couldn't?” Nevertheless, she was sort of leaning against Tungsten, who wobbled as he leaned against her. They were more or less propping each other up. It would be adorable in any other situation and, well, if Malach cared.   
  
“Good. Alaris, you and your companions follow my men up there. I'll bring up the rear. Move carefully, but as quickly as you can,” Malach said.   
  
He could feel time ticking by. Aftershocks could be any moment now. Though he'd lived his entire life within the mountain and surrounded by rock, he didn't want to die crushed under tons of jagged stone. He didn't want to make his home a tomb.   
  
The priestess got her companions organized, but let Hephaestion lead their way. As for herself, she slipped back to stand by Malach as her party gathered themselves. “I suspect that Beryl's accusations have merit,” she said in a low tone, her words carrying to no one else. “But I'll leave demands for answers until after we are free.”   
  
Malach tipped his chin. “You have no standing to require answers.”   
  
“You would also do well to stop denying him,” Alaris said, in a complete segue into an unrelated topic. “It will only do you harm.” She lifted a hand, tapping a finger to the skin above her upper lip before she whirled on a heel to rejoin her supposed anima.   
  
Startling, Malach touched the same spot on his own face, his fingers coming away wet. He looked down, the dampness a dark stain over his fingertips. In the low light, he couldn't see color but he really didn't need to. It was blood.   
  
He swiped a handkerchief over his nose again, wiping away the rest of the blood. His head continued to pulse, the voice hammering at his mental barriers. There, on the edge of his defenses, came the louder press of panic and terror and grief. He was fighting a battle on two fronts. No wonder his brain felt like soup.   
  
“Malach, sir?” Nytire had lifted a hand, as though to touch him, but thought better of it.   
  
Malach shook his head, ignoring the fine tremors rattling his body. “Nothing. Let's go before we are crushed. Rhode?”   
  
Up ahead of their small cluster of survivors, Rhode pressed forward. By some trick of magic, he was able to pass through the goddess' barrier, into the hallway beyond where collapsed roofing had made for a treacherous pathway.   
  
Behind them, Asclepius let the shield drop and the rumble of rocks finally allowed to drop sounded ominously loud in the tense silence. Conversation was utterly absent. Malach wanted to hear no more accusations or brazen attempts at convincing him to acknowledge the voice. In fact, he would be happier the sooner they deposited the foreigners beyond Shadowglade and out of Reiran.   
  
Rhode led them carefully through the stone-clogged passage, occasionally pausing to get his bearings in the near-darkness with familiar markers destroyed or buried in the debris. The barrier continued to disappear behind them until it was completely gone and Asclepius could drop her arms with a relieved exhale.   
  
“Alaris-san?” Tungsten said, his voice shattering the quiet and nearly making Malach startle. “What about Sleet-san and the others?”   
  
Beside the priestess, it was Hephaestion who answered. “They are relatively well,” he replied, flicking a glance over his shoulder. “Raven was injured and they are currently trying to find their way to the surface.” He paused, expression shifting into pity. “I apologize, Malach, but their guards were killed in the earthquake.”   
  
Malach didn't want to think about how many of his people had been killed in the premature quake. He feared neither his conscience nor his heart could take it. The Kurai were few enough as it was. To think that Lord Fenrir had turned against them like this...   
  
_… not... abandoned._   
  
A scattered collection of syllables broke through Malach's barriers, sending a pulse of agony through his temples. He stumbled, knees briefly weakening, and Nytire grabbed his elbow, steadying him.   
  
“Sir?”   
  
_...coming!_  
  
Malach dropped, nearly dragging Nytire down with him, and that was when the shaking started. Much sharper and more violent than before, tossing Nytire from her feet and sending many of them to the floor with startled cries.   
  
“Asclepius!” Hephaestion shouted.   
  
The sensation of magic filled the very narrow space where they were all clustered, in various locations over clumps of roof debris. A barrier flexed into existence over them, sputtering with Asclepius' exhaustion, and not fast enough.   
  
Through vision gone bleary with pain, Malach saw Rhode go down in a shriek of surprise and a sickening crunch of crushed bone. He heard the harsh pings of larger chunks of stone raining down on Asclepius' shield. The goddess gave a groan of strain, the barrier showing a visible ripple of colors before appearing to strengthen.  
  
Within the bubble of Asclepius' barrier, the aftershock seemed less pronounced, less dangerous, but Malach knew the truth wasn't so. Beyond it, he could see more stone raining down. The way forward and back became completely blocked, enough that Malach could see nothing of an exit. And the moment Asclepius dropped her barrier, they would all be crushed by the debris.   
  
Somewhere, in the distance, Malach heard a loud and sudden crack, as though something had abruptly broken. The ground rumbled so strongly he felt it rattle in his bones. And then, it tapered off into nothing, almost as suddenly as it had begun. The world settled, rocks continued to pelt down, striking noisily one against the other.   
  
The aftershock was over. Most of them were on their knees. Only Beryl had retained his feet, probably because his center of gravity was much lower than theirs. He was terribly small for a man. But then, so was the other thief.   
  
“Everyone all right?” Alaris asked, her voice disastrously loud in the following silence.   
  
A chorus of agreement floated into the dark before Hephaestion tapped his staff on the ground once more, illuminating them again in the pale silver light.   
  
“I'll be fine. Eventually,” Asclepius responded in a strained tone. “This isn't as easy as it looks.”   
  
Malach glanced at his fellows. Rhode was gone. Crushed beneath the heavy weight of a collapsed ceiling. Leaven was clutching his left shoulder, blood streaming over his fingers. And of course Nytire was beside Malach, unharmed.   
  
“The tunnel's been completely blocked now,” Beryl said from his position near the front of their motley assortment of characters. “I can't even see a space small enough for me to squeeze through.”   
  
Alaris frowned. “Asclepius, how long can you shield us?”   
  
“An hour. Maybe two.” Asclepius smiled, wobbly again, and leaned her head on Tungsten's shoulder. “Easier, now that I've made the barrier smaller, but still, it's a lot harder than just supporting a defensive shield.”   
  
Malach felt a dull worry settle in his chest. “That's not enough time to even hope for a rescue. If there is even a rescue to be found.”   
  
“What about Sleet-san and the others? They don't have someone to shield them!” Tungsten asked, suddenly rigid in his worry.   
  
Hephaestion sighed. “Trapped but otherwise alive. They were in a main hall, the wood supports protecting them from the worse of it.” He paused, tilting his head to the side. “They've been separated by debris.”  
  
Beryl plopped himself down on a piece of stone. “We're going to die down here.”   
  
“No, we're not!” Alaris snapped, cutting Beryl a harsh glare. “We have other options.” She whirled on a heel, her eyes pinning Malach down. “And you know exactly what they are.”   
  
Malach backpedaled at the force of her stare. “I don't know any magic.”   
  
“I'm not talking about magic,” Alaris spat and she moved forward, only to be stopped by Hephaestion's hand on her arm.   
  
“You cannot force this,” he said.   
  
She broke free with a furious shake of her arm. “I'm forcing nothing,” Alaris argued, her voice cutting into Malach's skull, slicing into the pain already present and lashing at the walls of his conscious. “I'll not die for one man's folly! No one liked the hand that Aesir gave us but we have no choice!”   
  
“I think, Alaris-san, that you are touching upon Sleet's point for his reluctance,” Tungsten said quietly, almost meek.   
  
“Reluctance? You are too kind to him, Tungsten. It's cowardice.”   
  
That struck a nerve. “I am no coward,” Malach hissed, body locked tight with indignation. “There are things you don't understand.”   
  
Alaris arched a brow at him, her face taking on ghoulish angles in the light of Hephaestion's staff. “I've been here barely a day and I understand well enough. Silly superstitions and the like. You'll cling to them, I know, because you'd rather die than reveal how very gifted you are.”   
  
“Death has more honor than exile,” Malach retorted through gritted teeth. But he felt it, like sand slipping through his fingers, his control fizzling away, dust in the wind.   
  
_She is right_ , the voice whispered to him, ever so logical and seductive, the pain in his skull easing with every word. _You are a fool. You are so much more._   
  
“Does murder?” Alaris demanded.   
  
Malach went rigid. “... What?”   
  
Her hand whipped around, gesturing to their close quarters, to the sweating Asclepius and Leaven clutching his broken shoulder. “You'll kill us all for your damn pride. We'll die here without you.”   
  
_I could have helped_ , the voice said. _All those years ago. I was watching. I was here. If you had listened._  
  
“Shut up,” Malach hissed, and mortified himself by registering he'd spoken aloud. He closed his eyes, turning his head away from Alaris, hands forming fists at his side.   
  
He tried to rebuild his walls, tried to shore up the cracks where light was shining through. But the voice continued, unabated, strengthened by the presence of the foreigners and their own irrefutable proof that the gods walked the land.   
  
_Her exile was not your fault._  
  
“Shut up!” Malach snarled, louder this time, turning to face the wall if only to avoid the accusing stares of the foreigners.   
  
_You are afraid, Malach. I understand. You wish to avoid her fate._ There was a pause, and the voice softened, but didn't lose strength. _In as much as you also wish to join her, if only to see her again._  
  
Something in Malach's chest tightened. He felt like he couldn't breathe.   
  
“I didn't ask for this.”   
  
_None of us did._  
  
“That's no comfort.”   
  
_From what I hear, Sleet didn't think so either. You didn't ask for this; you don't have much a choice. Except now._   
  
Malach barked a laugh, thick with bitterness. “And what can you do? Now? Trapped as we are? Make the rock disappear? Impossible!”   
  
_No, not disappear. But change them, yes. Reshape even. Recraft the halls as they once were. If only you would accept me._  
  
Malach hung his head, eyes squeezed shut. “I can't.” His voice was barely above a whisper, and he hardly heard it over the loud beat of his heart.   
  
_You must._   
  
He hunched. Whirls of indecision clattering back and forth inside his head. He ached, so badly, and it felt like something had stomped on his chest. There was a weight clinging to his back.   
  
They would exile him if they knew he talked to shadows. If they knew how he could skim their thoughts when he wasn't careful. Or if they knew that sometimes he had only to ask, and the land would listen.   
  
Or that he talked to the same things his mother did before they sent her away. He'd worked so long and hard to prove that he wasn't cursed like everyone expected of him. Even though he was. By Fenrir, he was.   
  
Malach exhaled raggedly. “What must I do?” he asked, resigned to his fate. Dying here, in this rocky prison, would be no better than exile. The Kurai would need him. How many had been buried in the quake that they weren't yet prepared to escape? How many of his people were now trapped, possibly dying, crying for a rescue they knew would never come?   
  
What if Isolde were trapped? Or Amyrei?  
  
 _Call my name._   
  
“I don't know it.”   
  
_You do. You always have._  
  
“I don't...” Malach trailed off, realization striking through him with the force of a blacksmith's hammer. “You are not Fenrir?”   
  
_Fenrir is who the Kurai have made me. Once I was another. Once, I was--_  
  
Malach lifted his head, his eyes opening in wide surprise. “Heimdal,” he said, aloud, with dawning understanding.   
  
This whole time, they'd been bowing down to a deity of their own crafting, relentlessly abandoning the old ways. But in truth, they hadn't. They'd only changed the name.   
  
“That's right,” a deep voice answered from behind him, causing Malach to turn slowly. “They would cast you out for blasphemy when in truth, I should be the one to punish them.”   
  
He hadn't appeared with a burst of magic, or a dramatic entrance even. He'd come to life silently and slowly in the narrow space where they were trapped, his pale green eyes locked on his animum.   
  
He was shorter than Malach by a full head, but much broader in the shoulder. His feet were bare, but his ankles were encircled by thick bands of iron, as were his wrists, almost like shackles. He wore pants gathered at the ankles and belted at the waist, and also a vest, tucked into the pants.   
  
He looked utterly human, but Malach knew that he was, without question, Heimdal.   
  
“My lord,” Malach breathed, and dropped to one knee.   
  
Heimdal, hands folded behind his back, arched a brow. “Please don't start that nonsense, Malach. I am no one's lord and certainly not yours. Aesir intended for us to be partners, not master and servant.”   
  
Gasps rung out from Leaven and Nytire. Malach heard them mutter in the language of the Kurai, and Nytire was the first to make obvious steps away from Malach, pressing her palm over her heart as though warding off evil spirits. The sort that would possess a man, here in these snow-drenched mountains.   
  
Malach rose to his feet, at once baffled and broken. He had outed himself to his people, and   
would soon out himself to all of the Kurai. What would their reaction be, he wondered, when they realized just whom Malach had been concealing? Would they even believe him?   
  
“The Kurai have always looked to you as our only deity,” Malach said.   
  
Heimdal sighed, lifting a hand to rub across his forehead. “The Kurai worship an idol of their own construction. It has nothing to do with me or what I used to stand for.”   
  
“Umm. I'd hate to interrupt,” Asclepius said in a wavery voice, gathering their attention. “But... now that you're here, Heimdal, I'd like to get out of this cave.”  
  
The deity smiled. “Of course, Asclepius. At once.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Malach, I shall teach you how to assist.”   
  
“And once we are free, I'll answer any questions you might have,” Alaris added pointedly.   
  
Malach refrained from commenting. What did it matter anymore? Reiran no longer had a place for him. It was only a matter of time.   
  


****


	28. Wolf in the Fold - Chapter Seven

With Heimdal's help and Malach being a quick study of the fine art of stone manipulation, it became faster and easier to make their way to the surface. Enough so that Heimdal felt it was prudent to sidetrack long enough to free Sleet and his trapped companions.  
  
Malach found no reason to argue, torn as he was between awe and regret. It was a strange sensation, to feel the rock shift and form beneath his fingers as though it were liquid or putty rather than solid stone. He couldn't deny the feeling of raw power it produced. He couldn't ignore the awed looks Leaven and Nytire were giving him.  
  
Or the fear. That warred within them as strongly as awe. They hung back, keeping away from the foreigners and from Malach himself. As though they expected him to turn at any moment and carve out their hearts. Leaven had even gone so far as to refuse to allow Alaris to help him with his wounded shoulder.  
  
Malach hated it, hated it all. So he helped Heimdal dig their way through the destruction of Reiran in silence, locks clamped tight on his thoughts. He knew they were getting close to freedom when he caught the first breath of free-flowing air.  
  
“We're almost through,” he announced, purely for the benefit of everyone else who was exhausted and injured.  
  
“Thank the gods,” the mage – Tungsten – replied, his voice echoing the weariness that the rest of his companions radiated.  
  
Malach himself felt strangely energized, as though every use of his once-hidden abilities was making him stronger. He loathed that as well. He'd rather the weakness.  
  
Heimdal, however, chuckled at the exhausted mage. “You're welcome,” he replied.  
  
A feeble laugh bubbled up from the gathered men and women, a couple of whom were rescued Kurai that Malach had found as they collected Sleet and the others. The Kurai were giving Malach a wide berth, staring at him wide-eyed and frightened as the rock flowed away from him, as if by magic. Magic the Kurai had disdained for so many decades.  
  
Malach returned his conversation to their escape, bending his will to manipulating the heavy stone that surrounded them. The rock felt like liquid beneath his fingertips, rippling aside, stronger for all that he was manipulating its very nature.  
  
The scent of fresh air grew stronger. Sunlight spilled across his fingers, warm and inviting. Malach surged forward, uncommonly eager to stride under the sun again. He loved Reiran; he loved their city of stone. But the idea of being trapped beneath the earth for the rest of his life was discomfiting.  
  
One more push and the remaining barrier between himself and freedom flowed away, sunlight flooding into the narrow passage that Malach and Heimdal had been crafting. He winced, pupils contracting in the sudden brightness.  
  
A ragged cheer rose from the crowd behind him.  
  
Malach held back, pushing against the side of the tunnel, gesturing for the others to exit ahead of him. He wanted to leave; he didn't want to face his people. His insides were in turmoil.  
  
Heimdal, too, remained, standing across from Malach, his gaze unwavering as he watched Malach while the others exited.  
  
“You have done a good thing,” Heimdal said.  
  
Malach's hands clenched into fists. “I wish that were true.” He swallowed thickly, tasting grit on his tongue. “Chieftain Adlai, if he lives, will not see it as such. Nor his successors. They will only see the lies and the curse.”  
  
“You will have to show them different.”  
  
His gaze turned away from the god, who was attached to him if the farfetched story were to be believed. Malach still struggled with that.  
  
“It is less simple than you make it sound,” Malach said, and pushed himself off the craggy side of the wall, where rock protrusions had pressed against his back.  
  
He squared his shoulders. There was nothing to do but face the mob. He couldn't hide underground for all eternity. Where, then, would his honor be? Aside from that, Isolde would worry and Amyrei would cry. Thoughts of them, more than anything, were what spurred Malach to finally step into the bright sunlight, Heimdal a mere pace behind him.  
  
Outside, it was chaos.  
  
Someone was yelling. Others were sobbing quietly. Families and friends were clustered together. It was a sea of sorrow, of faces streaked with dust and blood. Alaris and her companions had grouped together, on the distant edge of the gathered Kurai, Alaris already seeing to their injuries. Malach, grateful for his height, scanned the crowd.  
  
He looked, first and foremost, for his wife and child. Sooner or later, Chieftain Adlai and/or Dror would find him. They would want to ask questions. Malach wanted to see to his family first, ensure himself of their safety.  
  
Such was his luck, he couldn't spot either of them before Dror and a trio of warriors pounced. Malach, distracted by his search, didn't turn in time and took the full force of a blow to the face. Pain bloomed across his left cheek and he staggered, only saved from falling by Heimdal catching and steadying him.  
  
“Cursed!” Dror spat, backed up by three Kurai warriors, their name's floating in and out of Malach's consciousness. “Just like your mother!”  
  
“I saved lives,” Malach replied, his vision a little shaky. Dror was no weakling and his punch packed quite a blow.  
  
He lifted a hand, wiping blood from his chin, still tasting it on his tongue. “I did what I had to do.”  
  
Dror's eyes flashed fury, and not a small amount of fear. “You brought this upon us,” he hissed, bristling with indignation, fingers curling around a blade-tipped spear. “You are the reason the quake came.”  
  
“Superstitious nonsense,” Heimdal retorted, his voice low and sonorous. “Natural phenomena have no origin in such.”  
  
They were gathering a crowd, a circle of curious and afraid Kurai forming around Malach, Heimdal, Dror and his three warriors.  
  
Malach forced himself to his feet, attempting to stand straight and proud. His heart hammered in his chest, sweat slicking his palms. He thought, unwillingly, of his mother. The look in her eyes as the warriors had driven her out of town. The way he had sobbed without understanding, the way his father's hands had clamped tightly to his shoulders, telling him to be silent.  
  
“Stay out of Kurai business, stranger,” Dror growled, glaring at Heimdal.  
  
 _Do not tell them who I am._ The warning flashed into Malach's head just as he was beginning to form the words. He clamped his mouth shut again.  
  
 _'But--'  
  
It would do no good. They would not believe, and they have lost the right to believe._  
  
Though confused, Malach obeyed. “I can help the others, Dror. I'm sure that more of our people are still trapped.” There would be no begging for him; there was no going back either.  
  
“Listen to him.” Alaris' clear voice cut through the tension and anger radiating from the gathered Kurai. “Open your minds. He can help.”  
  
Dror ignored her. “The Kurai don't need the help of the cursed ones. We have no need of your magic.” He spat the word as though it were a foul taste in his mouth.  
  
“No!” Another voice sprang out, loud and harried.  
  
Malach stiffened. _Isolde_.  
  
She pushed her way through the crowd, elbowing seamstresses and cooks out of the way and pushing past the gathered warriors. “Malach!”  
  
She flew to his arms, covered in dust and debris, left leg limping and tear marks cutting through the filth on her face. Malach wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, pressing his nose to her dusty hair.  
  
“Where is Amyrei?” he asked, feeling her warmth against him like a blessing. Isolde was safe! A part of him relaxed, relieved.  
  
Isolde gripped the back of his shirt, fingers digging into flesh. “She was with Suna. I can't find her, Malach.”  
  
“What?” Malach's heart dropped into his belly, a feeling like icy cold river water pouring over his shoulders. He gripped Isolde's shoulders, pushing her back so he could see her face. “What do you mean?”  
  
Big brown eyes returned his gaze, dark with grief and worry. “Suna never made it out. Amyrei must be with her.” Isolde reached up, gripping Malach's arms, fingers digging in tight enough to bruise. “Nytire says that you moved the rocks. Is that true?”  
  
Malach winced. “Yes.” He would not like to his wife.  
  
“Then you can find her. You must find her.” There was no sign of judgment in Isolde's eyes. Perhaps she had already – always – known.  
  
“Can you do it?” the tentative question bubbled up from a faceless voice in the crowd surrounding them.  
  
Malach turned, peering through the incongruous sunlight to find a young man – a blacksmith by the look of him – at the front of the gathered Kurai. One arm was in a sling, an eye swollen and sealed shut, dried blood caked around the edges.  
  
“Can you find my father?” he asked, his tones both hopeful and afraid, trembling around the edges. Like he didn't want to come near the cursed creature Malach had become, but would do anything to see his loved one alive.  
  
Hope rose out of the gathered Kurai like a visible waver in the air, a heat mirage. A murmur swept through the crowd as a wave, whispers becoming excited and cautious. Talk about mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and sons and daughters, all still trapped, all missing.  
  
“I could,” Malach said, holding the youth's gaze. He couldn't remember the boy's name at the moment. Jally, perhaps.  
  
“He won't,” Dror interrupted icily. “We don't need his kind or his magic.”  
  
“But we do!” Isolde snapped, whirling toward Dror, her hand whipping through the air. “There are dozens of our people still trapped! Without Malach's help, they'll die. There's no possibility of us digging them out in time. Don't let your fear blind you!”  
  
“Chieftain Adlai is also missing,” another voice added, though meekly, as if afraid of gaining Dror's attention. “Would you leave him to die as well?”  
  
Dror visibly flinched, indignation sliding off his shoulders like loose leaves from empty branches. No, he could not leave his own father to die. And, in good conscience, he could not force his brethren to do the same.  
  
“Fine,” Dror said with a fierce sneer. He pointed his weapon at Malach. “Find them all. Maybe it will spare your life. But you won't go alone.”  
  
Malach suspected as much. He dipped his head, but only by an inch. Silent concession. For now.  
  


  
o0o0o

  
  
  
“We should leave.”  
  
Sleet looked up from where he was leaning against the trunk of a tree, fatigue clinging to every bone and muscle. Beryl was the one who had spoken, the blond standing on the clear demarcation between forest and open land sprawled in front of the near-collapsed Reiran.  
  
“We can't,” Ashur replied dully, perched on a large boulder and staring at the chaotic mass of Kurai. “They'd notice.”  
  
“Right now, I don't think they'd care what we do.” Beryl snorted, running a hand through his hair. Like the rest of them, he was covered in dirt and debris, his hair more brown than blond right now.  
  
“I would argue different,” said Iblion, leaning against the boulder that Ashur had taken as a perch. He made no effort to hide the fact he was being a guard, despite being weaponless.  
  
They were all still weaponless as a matter of fact. They had no supplies, no belongings, nothing. Alaris and Tungsten didn't have their books or herbs. Sleet himself had nothing but the tools of his trade, hidden on his person. He still didn't have any shoes.  
  
“How far would we get anyway?” Ashur added, his blue eyes flat and lifeless. It was actually pretty creepy. Sleet tried not to look at him so much. “No food. No water. Can't even defend ourselves.”  
  
“It doesn't matter. We are not leaving,” Alaris said firmly, though she sounded distracted. Considering she'd been working on Raven for the past two hours, Sleet wasn't surprised.  
  
The mercenary had yet to regain consciousness and Sleet was making a point to not watch as Alaris physically set the bone in his leg and began healing him. Sleet was a thief, not a warrior, and the sight of blood made him ill.  
  
“Why not?” Beryl demanded, whirling toward the priestess and fixing her with a glare. “The Kurai have no interest in helping or believing us. And they have bigger things to think about than us right now.”  
  
Alaris wrapped a piece of salvaged cloth tightly around Raven's leg. “We came here for a reason if you recall. We will need Malach and Heimdal both.”  
  
“Malach's not going to leave,” Ashur said, his voice thick and rough. “This is his home. His family's here. Why would he want to leave?”  
  
Reaching up to check Raven's temperature, Alaris sat back on her heels and looked at the gathered crew. “I suspect that Malach may not have a choice in the matter.”  
  
“I don't speak their language, but even I can tell that much,” Tungsten added. Of them all, he stood the closest to the Kurai, watching their interactions. “That one looked like he wanted to kill Malach there on the spot. But I'm guessing logic intervened. He's smart enough to realize that they'll need Heimdal and Malach to retrieve survivors.”  
  
“Do we really have the time to sit around here waiting for them to get through with rescue efforts?” Beryl demanded, hand whipping through the air. He looked tense, more so than the rest of them. “Isn't there some crazy god out there with an army of demons fit to destroy the world?”  
  
“If Malach does not come with us, then he will die. And his people with him,” Alaris countered. “He cannot defeat Balaam on his own.”  
  
Sleet snorted. “At this point, we can't defeat Balaam with all our powers combined.”  
  
No one paid him a bit of attention.  
  
“Besides,” Tungsten added, and Sleet couldn't help but be a bit amazed. Somehow, the mage was starting to grow a backbone. “We can't do anything until Raven-san is well enough to travel. He needs at least a night of rest before he can so much as hobble on that foot.”  
  
“We still don't have any supplies,” Ashur said.  
  
Beryl threw out his arms as he turned to the forest, gesturing to the thick trees and heavy underbrush. “There's a wealth of supplies right in front of you, city boy. How many rivers did we pass when they dragged us through here? It's mid-summer, there have to be nuts and berries. Not to mention rabbits and other game. It's not like we're going to starve.”  
  
“And weapons?” Iblion pointed out. “My magic can only take us so far. Asclepius and Hephaestion are not built for offensive maneuvers either.”  
  
Well, they had Erebus and Sleet, but apparently Sleet wasn't being included in any of their discussions as no one had asked his opinion yet.  
  
Beryl grinned, turning back to them. “You let me worry about weapons. And anything else the forest can't give us.”  
  
Alaris rose to her feet, wiping her blood-streaked hands on the ends of her robes. “No stealing.”  
  
“It's not stealing if we're taking back what's ours,” Sleet pointed out. “They took our stuff. We're just recouping our losses.”  
  
“I don't think stealing from the Kurai is going to help us any,” Tungsten said with a bit of humor. “But you have a point, Beryl-san. We do need supplies.”  
  
Alaris huffed, her eyes bouncing from Beryl to Sleet and back again. “Just don't get caught,” she finally conceded.  
  
“That doesn't solve the question of whether or not we're leaving,” Ashur said.  
  
“We're not,” Alaris said firmly. “No arguing. We're not leaving until I get another chance to speak to Malach.”  
  
Sleet bit back a sigh. His only consolation was that sunset was approaching at a rapid pace. Come nightfall, he and Beryl could do their thing and appropriate some much needed supplies. Sleet didn't intend to take much, just get a few weapons, a pair of shoes, and a bag or two to stow everything in. Alaris and Tungsten would have to do without their magic supplies until they could get to the next town.  
  
At the moment, he could do nothing but wait.  
  


  
o0o0o

  
  
  
Despite his earlier vigor, extended use of his newly discovered abilities was dragging on Malach. His shoulders slumped, every swallow tasted like grit, and his limbs felt as heavy as the stone he was manipulating.  
  
He was surrounded by death, with kin turned enemy at his back, and despair clinging to his heart. He hadn't found Suna or Amyrei yet. And time was running short.  
  
Two more aftershocks had already ripped through Reiran. They'd lost two of the warriors Dror had brought with him as they all accompanied Malach. Despite Heimdal' greatest efforts, they hadn't been able to shield all of the Kurai in time.  
  
“It has been so long,” Heimdal had said, in a quiet, apologetic tone. “I am not so used to performing on the mortal plane yet. I fear my powers have weakened.”  
  
Gone unspoken was the other truth. That Malach refusing to acknowledge Heimdal for so long had weakened them both. Malach had only himself to blame. But if he couldn't find his daughter, if his stubborn fear proved her death, Malach didn't know what he would do. He couldn't bear to live with himself...  
  
Inhaling sharply, Malach bent his will to the terrible task at hand. They had rescued many of their fellows, but for every one they found alive, they pulled two bodies from the rubble. It was a terrible tragedy. Why had the quake come so soon?  
  
All of their signs, their studying, had led them to believe they had at least a few more weeks. Plenty of time to finish building their plans, gathering supplies, and preparing for the long, long move somewhere else. Somewhere far from the demons spreading across Corynth.  
  
Malach's head hurt. Dror assumed that Malach was using his newly-revealed abilities to find their missing kin. He was both right and wrong.  
  
Malach could hear them, even through the stone. Weeping. Begging for help. Crying from pain. They were a rush of voices, mingled and sometimes incomprehensible. But they were like dowsing rods in guiding the paths he took.  
  
He remembered all of the corridors and the rooms of most of Reiran, but not even Malach had memorized every nook and cranny. Besides, the earthquake had destroyed much of the infrastructure. He had no choice but to unlock that door, let this hated ability rise to the surface and rely upon it. For the sake of his people, his daughter.  
  
He was doomed anyway. Might as well save as many lives as he could before they cast him out.  
  
 _Someone help me.  
  
It's dark. I can't breathe.  
  
Help!  
  
Jaergan! Wake up! Please!_  
  
Malach shuddered, the grief and fear overwhelming.  
  
But then he heard her. A bare wisp on the edge of his senses, her voice so soft and broken that he would have almost missed it in the deluge of emotions bombarding him.  
  
Amyrei!  
  
Malach shifted his attention to the wall of haphazardly fallen boulders to his left. Difficult to see in the light of the flickering torches, Malach could still sense the slight airflow between their current corridor and a small open space beyond.  
  
“What is it?” Dror demanded. He'd been hovering at Malach's right side for the entirety of their foray into Reiran as though he thought Malach might flee into the rockbed and never emerge.  
  
If it weren't for Amyrei and his own honor, Malach might have done so. Perhaps Dror's fear was warranted.  
  
“Amyrei,” Malach answered, and reached for the boulders, his newly acquired ability eagerly latching onto the chunks of jagged rock.  
  
The torches weren't bright enough to distinguish classes of stone. But Malach could tell by mere touch what they were. Chunks of granite interspersed with thick veins of pyrite and arrayed with layers of rough sandstone, the latter of which he knew would be a rust-red like most of the stone within Reiran. It was strange to touch the rock, know by the magic-feel of it, just what kind of stone it was.  
  
 _I've found Chieftain Adlai, Malach_ , Heimdal said across their telepathic connection. A rather handy bonus to their partnership.  
  
Malach didn't dare pause in moving the stone aside, desperate to get to his daughter. “Dror, Heimdal has uncovered your father.”  
  
He didn't have to look to see the indecision warring in his cousin's face.  
  
“Go,” said Tyria, one of Dror's most trusted warriors. “I will watch him.”  
  
Dror didn't need a second encouragement. He took two of his warriors with them and they plunged into the gloom, following the path where Heimdal had split from them earlier, taking his own complement of Kurai warriors.  
  
Malach only noted this in passing, his heart pounding in his chest as he all but tossed the rocks aside, ripping them into smaller, more manageable pieces and shoring up the weak walls of the corridor. They weren't anywhere near Suna's quarters. He could only assume that Suna had been trying to get out when the ceiling collapsed.  
  
He moved more rubble aside, air rushing in to fill the space he created. He could hear a voice now, with his ears as opposed to his ability, crying softly.  
  
“Amyrei?” he called out, hopeful.  
  
“...Daddy?”  
  
He worked faster. “I'm coming. Just hold on.” More stone was tossed aside. Malach didn't bother to be delicate about it.  
  
“Okay.” Amyrei sniffled, sounding so small and terrified.  
  
Malach dug, magic flowing around him and out through his fingers. The taste of grit became stronger as his efforts threw more dust into the air. The torches flickered. A couple of the warriors flanked him on either side, helping to move the loose debris.  
  
An arm came into view, streaked with blood, impossibly mangled. Too large to be his daughter's. Malach's innards clenched. So much death. And the Kurai were already few.  
  
There was a small pocket of space. Cleared away rock revealed Suna, her still body covered in blood, clothing ripped to shreds. She must have protected Amyrei at the last moment.  
  
Behind Malach, someone gasped. “Suna!”  
  
A warrior shouldered past Malach, reaching for the limp body of the woman, gentle fingers brushing dirt-streaked hair away from Suna's face. Malach recognized, in that moment, Erich. He and Suna were to be wed soon.  
  
Tragedy on top of tragedy.  
  
Erich crumpled with grief, pulling Suna aside, into his arms.  
  
Malach left him to it, trying not to think too deeply on his own fortune, not when Amyrei looked up at him with tear-streaked brown eyes. As brown as her mother's.  
  
“Daddy?”  
  
He pulled her into his arms, squeezing tightly, a shudder wracking him from head to toe.  
  
“Suna protected me,” Amyrei said, her voice a fearful warble as she clutched him. “We tried to get out but--”  
  
Malach pressed a hand to the back of her head, fingers burying in her long hair, as blood and dirt streaked as Suna's. “Shh. I know. It's okay.”  
  
Her tears dampened his tunic. She clutched him so tightly, Malach wasn't sure if he'd be able to let her go. Not that he wanted to.  
  
He rubbed her back, trying to offer comfort to his only child. She'd been trapped like that for hours, buried beneath rubble with only a small pocket of space, with Suna's dead weight atop her. What a nightmare.  
  
Erich's hitched breathing only added to the sorrow hanging in the air. He clutched Suna tightly, as unashamed to display his grief as any proper warrior would. Love was something to be cherished amongst the Kurai, in whatever form it took.  
  
“Malach, there are others still missing,” Tyria said, prodding him in the small of his back with the blunt end of her halberd.  
  
He shifted toward her with a firm glare. “I need a moment.”  
  
“People are dying.” Tyria didn't so much as flinch. There was a reason she was Dror's favorite after all. Nothing seemed to pierce her icy composure.  
  
Malach felt Amyrei's small fingers tighten around him. “I'm aware of that. Let me take care of my daughter first.”  
  
How the mighty had fallen. Once, they would have respected him. Once, he would have been the one issuing orders. Now, with the truth revealed, Malach had become the lowest of the low, so far down the chain of command that there were children who held more rank than he.  
  
“Ondae can take her.”  
  
“No!” Malach snapped, then forced himself to reel it in. “I will take her to Isolde.”  
  
Tyria stared and Malach returned her look with a gaze equally firm. He wouldn't back down on this. They would have to fight him. He'd only just rescued his daughter. By Asherah, he wasn't going to let her go until he could place her safely in his wife's arms.  
  
No matter what Tyria argued. As if to encourage his point, the mountain around them gave a quiet rumble, the ground quaking lightly. Not enough to dislodge anything, but still tangible.  
  
“Fine.” Tyria turned on a heel with a sharp motion. “Be quick about it.”  
  
Malach didn't miss the echo of fear behind her expression. She had capitulated only for that reason.  
  
He saved his gratitude.  
  
Holding Amyrei close, Malach began the trek out of Reiran, something completed much faster than the arduous journey in. With the path already cleared, it took him very little time to navigate the changed corridors to the fresh air.  
  
“Daddy? What's going on?” Amyrei asked, voice thick from sobbing.  
  
How could he tell her? He barely understood himself. He hadn't even the chance to explain to Isolde.  
  
“It's nothing,” he lied, certain that she couldn't understand, not at her age. Amyrei hadn't reached the age of majority yet, and wouldn't for several years to come. “Are you okay? You're not hurt, are you?”  
  
She rubbed her face against his tunic, sniffling. “Hurt my arm.”  
  
“Which one?”  
  
She let go, holding out her left arm.  
  
Malach took it gently, examining it as best he could by torchlight. He could see bruising, blood from bad scrapes, but it didn't appear to be broken. A quick rinse in the river and some light bandaging ought to take care of it.  
  
He gently pulled her hand to his mouth, pressing a comforting kiss to her fingertips. “I'm sorry I didn't get to you sooner.”  
  
“It's okay.” She snuggled in against his chest. “Knew you'd come.” Relief and sheer, innocent love flooded from his daughter, nearly overwhelming Malach's already taxed senses. It helped to wash away the lingering odor of death and despair.  
  
He breathed a sigh of relief as they stepped out of Reiran, into a chilly dark night lit by a sea of torches. The surviving Kurai had clumped together around large campfires and hastily constructed shelters built of salvaged cloth and strong bamboo from the forest. A makeshift triage had been put together on the edge of the woodland, the wounded laid out in rows. There were few critical cases. Those who would survive were stable; those that weren't had already been wrapped and held aside, for a time when a proper funeral could be had.  
  
Malach's heart ached to see the end of the careful line of bodies, furthest from the campsite and guarded by a handful of warriors.  
  
Flanked by his two guards, Malach scanned the sea of blood-streaked and dust-shaded faces, hoping to spot Isolde. Knowing his wife, she'd be where she could be of most use, likely assisting the healers or attempting to concoct a meal for the scattered Kurai.  
  
True to form, he found Isolde with the healers, gently wiping grit and blood from one of the injured men's face. She looked up as he approached, dropping the bowl in surprise.  
  
“You found her!” Isolde sprang to her feet as Amyrei wriggled in Malach's arms, eagerly calling for her mother.  
  
“Suna didn't make it,” Malach said, handing their daughter over to Isolde and drawing both of his ladies into his arms, holding them close.  
  
“Erich must be devastated,” Isolde murmured, hooking her arm around Malach's waist as she peppered Amyrei with relieved kisses.  
  
She still wasn't asking him any questions. Malach feared the moment when she would finally sit him down and demand answers. He wouldn't know what to say.  
  
Malach leaned the side of his head against Isolde's; they were of a height after all. He clung to his family, knowing he couldn't stay by their side. He wanted to soak them up for as long as possible.  
  
“I'm sorry,” he said, closing his eyes, swallowing thickly.  
  
“You found her,” Isolde replied, her fingers digging into his side where she gripped him. “In the end, that's what matters to me.”  
  
 _Malach_.  
  
He pressed a kiss to his wife's forehead, reluctantly answering Heimdal' summons.  
  
 _'What is wrong?'  
  
Chieftain Adlai. He did not make it._  
  
Malach stiffened, his eyes popping open. ' _Does Dror know?'  
  
He is heading toward you as we speak. He is not happy, pup._  
  
Of course he wasn't. Adlai was his father. And in the absence of a face to give blame to, Dror would focus on Malach alone. He couldn't very well rage at the gods and the mountain that had been their home. Malach would be a handy outlet, their blood ties be damned.  
  
“Malach, what is it?” Isolde must have sensed his tension.  
  
He looked past her, toward the gaping maw of Reiran where he could already see Dror emerging, holding a torch up high. Behind him were his warriors, two of whom were carrying a carefully wrapped form. Malach could only assume that it was Chieftain Adlai.  
  
No. Dror was Chieftain now.  
  
' _I see him. I may need you, Heimdal.'  
  
Acknowledged._  
  
He looked down at his wife, feeling his heart clench within him. “No matter what they tell you, I love you,” he replied, loosening his hold on her with great reluctance. “You and Amyrei both.”  
  
He let them go, putting himself between his family and the furiously approaching Dror.  
  
This would not be pleasant. For anyone.  
  


  
****

 


	29. Wolf in the Fold - Chapter Eight

“Something's happening.”  
  
Alaris rose to her feet, wiping her hands on the ragged ends of her robe, not that it mattered as filthy as they were. “What is it?”  
  
Iblion gestured over the slight rise separating them from the Kurai. “It was quiet up until a minute ago. Now they are starting to gather. And speak.”  
  
“Want me to investigate?” Beryl asked, with perhaps more eagerness than she would have expected of the thief. He was certainly more helpful than Sleet, which made Alaris all the more wary of him.  
  
“No.” Alaris frowned. “I'll do it myself.” Though not entirely by herself. She would ask Hephaestion to listen in, offer his words of advice.  
  
 _The Chieftain is dead_ , Hephaestion informed her. _And his heir is understandably upset. He blames Malach._  
  
Alaris reared back. “What? That's absurd.”  
  
 _From what I can gather, there is bad blood between them. Of what nature, however, I do not know._  
  
Alaris pinched her lips together, doggedly climbing the small incline and slipping amongst the Kurai, who seemed to pay her no attention. She could hear raised voices and the sound of a small child weeping. The Kurai were murmuring amongst themselves, but seemed more interested in watching whatever was happening than in participating.  
  
By the time she pushed her way to the front, she had a new understanding of the politics concerning current events. That Dror and Malach were related actually came as a surprise to her. That the Kurai regarded Malach as some sort of demon or sorcerer, however, was no surprise. His reaction to the mere suggestion that he was an animus had explained as much.  
  
Alaris stood there, watching, as two warriors restrained an unresisting Malach, binding his arms behind his back with a thick rope. A woman holding a young girl stood nearby, both of them crying, the former silently. Dror was there, his expression set in stone, jaw clenched shut, unrelenting. Heimdal was also present, though he hovered near the woman and child.  
  
“What's going on?” Alaris demanded, the surge of the crowd pushing her into the open space with a small stumble.  
  
Malach's eyes flicked her way, the flare of the torches catching his gold eyes with an eerie glint. “It is none of your concern.”  
  
“Of course it is! I need your help!” Alaris insisted, though she felt like she was standing on a slippery slope. Logically, she had no footing when it came to demanding information.  
  
Malach's gaze flicked to Dror's, who spat something at him in their native tongue. Malach flinched and looked back at Alaris.  
  
“I am of no help to anyone,” he replied, shoulders dipping. “The Kurai have no care what you do anymore. I suggest that you leave.”  
  
He turned back toward Dror, saying something softly, which resulted in the warriors leading him away from the open space. Dror cast a look in Alaris' direction, one she couldn't interpret, before following after the bound Malach.  
  
Alaris bristled, starting forward, with every intention of following.  
  
Heimdal, however, stepped into her path, barring her. “Nothing you could say can help him. In fact, it would only worsen his punishment.”  
  
Her insides clenched. “Punishment?”  
  
Heimdal took her hand, pulling her away from the Kurai and back toward their companions. “The Kurai are not only superstitious but they consider any supernatural talents a danger. Malach's own mother was exiled when he was a child because she was a mind-walker.”  
  
“Mind-walker?” It was a term she had never heard before, not even in all of the old books she had spent many a month reading in the dusty library of the temple.  
  
“He can touch the minds of others,” Heimdal elaborated.  
  
Alaris gave him a blank look. She had never heard of such an ability, not magical or otherwise. Magic could only touch the physical world, after all, never something as insubstantial as the mind.  
  
“Malach can sense emotions, read your thoughts, and, on some occasions, communicate with the dead, but that's only for those remaining spectres of strong constitution.”  
  
“Is it because he is an animus?”  
  
Heimdal shook his head, pulling her further from the Kurai and over the rise where she had left Raven and the others. “No. I suspect he is an animus because of his ability. Inherited from his mother, and her father before that.”  
  
How intriguing. Except, apparently, for the fact that Kurai considered Malach some sort of demon or black-arts shaman for this inherited trait. Despite the lives he had saved.  
  
“What's going to happen to him?”  
  
Heimdal frowned, his brown eyes darkening. “I am not certain. His mother was exiled. Malach will be lucky if that is the only fate he suffers.”  
  
“Lucky?” Iblion's retort met them as they finally arrived back at the small campsite their group had put together. “Some might argue that being forced to leave his wife and child is the worse fate.”  
  
“Better than death,” Sleet piped up from where he was laid up against a stone, looking as if he were going to fall asleep at any moment.  
  
“Of course you would think that,” Iblion said with an askance look the thief's direction. “You have no honor to lose.”  
  
Beryl snorted. “Honor? What the fuck's that? It doesn't fill your belly or warm you up at night. Useless sentiment.”  
  
Alaris bit back a sigh. Excluding Beryl, who had tagged along, she still found it hard to believe that this ragtag group was supposed to be the heroes Corynth needed. The heroes that Aesir had hand-picked.  
  
“Never thought I'd see the day we'd agree,” Sleet said with a laugh.  
  
Beryl gave Sleet a sidelong look. “Cherish the moment. It's not happening again.”  
  
“Um, Alaris-san,” Tungsten said, raising his voice to be heard over the noisy ruffians. “What's going on? Is Malach-san all right?”  
  
Alaris picked her way to Tungsten's side, obscenely grateful to have at least one person on this quest who didn't cause problems. To be fair, Tungsten was a bit absent-minded, clumsy, and naïve. But he was determined and daring despite the odds. It was a little cute, actually.  
  
Raven absolutely didn't count. That man had nothing on his mind but vengeance and death, it didn't particularly matter which order. He wouldn't rest until he had Frost's blood bathing his sword, whether Alaris was there to direct him or not.  
  
“That's a matter of opinion,” Heimdal said, dropping heavily to the ground near the campfire, not bothering with dragging over a mat or confiscated blanket as a barrier. “He'll live. But whether he'll want his life by the end is a question only he can answer.”  
  
Alaris reached over, snagging some of the dried meat that Tungsten was no longer snacking on. “The Kurai have taken offense over Malach's status as an animus. And rather than flee or fight, like a fool, Malach has given himself over to them.”  
  
That whole concept of honor, Alaris supposed. Where it had ever gotten anyone except dead Alaris would never know. She had faith, and trust, and her own brand of honor, but when it came to protecting her life, there were some things just not worth it. Obeying outdated beliefs was one of them.  
  
“Are we leaving then?” Ashur asked, and by Aesir, the kid was looking worse and worse with each passing day. She'd never seen a twin so dependent on his other half.  
  
Then again, Fafnir's loss was probably compounding the effect. Iblion wasn't doing much better, his surliness increasing exponentially with each passing day. He and Raven were developing a rapport that made Alaris cringe.  
  
Still, Ashur's question had merit.  
  
Alaris glanced at Heimdal, suspecting that the earth god would have a better idea of Malach's future.  
  
“Yes,” Heimdal answered, bare feet digging into the powdery soil beneath him. “There is no reason to linger.”  
  
“You're not going to stay with him?” Alaris asked, unable to hide her surprise. She was under the impression that deities could not stray far from their animus, Iblion's case aside.  
  
Heimdal shook his head. “Not at first. I will help guide you out of Shadowglade and the Lepidae mountains, but beyond that, I will return to him.”  
  
“We're just going to leave Malach-san behind?” Tungsten asked.  
  
“I don't see where we have any other choice.” Alaris leaned back against a tree, feeling the bark through the thin fabric of her robes. “We can't very well drag him with us.”  
  
“Oh, really?” Sleet suddenly sat back up, one hand waving through the air. “You seemed perfectly fine doing it to me.”  
  
“Different situation. Entirely irrelevant,” Alaris replied.  
  
“Raven-san's still unconscious,” Tungsten said with a pointed glance at the sleeping mercenary, who was probably the most comfortable of all of them at the moment, bedded as he was on an assortment of scavenged cloths.  
  
“And we don't have any supplies,” Ashur added with a tangible shiver, clutching his blanket tighter around him.  
  
It was getting chilly. The harsh mountain winds cut through clothing as though it wasn't there. Alaris longed for the humid heat of Gwartney. “We already know we're heading to Darthen next, but that's several days ride. More since we'll be walking. What's closer?” Her maps had been with her books, all of which were buried somewhere in Reiran.  
  
No one spoke up immediately. Alaris sighed. Raven would have known. But he was still unconscious, a healing sleep. He would wake in the morning but Alaris wanted this settled now. She was antsy without a clear plan of action.  
  
“I've never been outside of Nename,” Ashur finally ventured. “I've seen maps. I know there's a town or two, but I don't know where or which one. It's been a while. Sorry.”  
  
“I've never been out this way either, Alaris-san. If we were in Nipon I could help, but not this far north,” Tungsten said, and then added, “Sorry.”  
  
Alaris looked at the thieves, both of whom claimed to be well-traveled.  
  
Beryl leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “There are three towns before Gwartney. One of them's small, useless. I'd suggest Toran or Orkhom.”  
  
Sleet sighed, the heavy defeated sound of a man who didn't want to admit something. “Orkhom's no good. Sickness hit about two years back, killed most of the folk and tainted everything else.”  
  
Alaris shuddered. No, they would not be stopping by Orkhom. Sickness was vague, but if it was strong enough to wipe out nearly a whole town, Alaris didn't want to be near it.  
  
Hmm. Actually, now that she thought about it, she distinctly remembered Sleet being abhorrent to the mention of Toran the last time they discussed their next course of action. Curious. Though, knowing Sleet, it could be a matter as simple as him having been arrested or caught up in some trouble.  
  
“How far is Toran?” Iblion asked.  
  
“A day out from Shadowglade. Northwest, just before you hit the river,” Sleet said, again with a tone that implied he would rather be elsewhere. “We'll have to go through Riye Pass.”  
  
Alaris winced. She didn't know much about the geography of this area, but she knew her politics. Any named passes were built by the King and therefore taxed. They would require payment. And all of her coin was in the same bag with her maps, therefore, it was beyond reach.  
  
Beryl chuckled. “I get the feeling everyone here is on the poor side. Going through Riye legitimately is not an option.” He paused, giving Sleet a look that tried and failed at innocent. “Tell us, Sleet, how did you slip through the first time?”  
  
Sleet clenched his jaw. “I didn't go through Riye. I went southwest.”  
  
“Through Barrow?” Again with the fake innocence.  
  
“Not that it's any of your business, but yes.”  
  
The tension running between those two was thick enough to be sliced by sword. Alaris wondered if she'd have to break up a cat fight with the way they were trading stares of distaste. Really, she wasn't in charge of a highly skilled team of warriors sent to defeat Balaam. She had a group of children who needed babysitting. Constantly.  
  
“So it's decided,” Alaris said sharply, with hopes that it would cut off their budding snark fest. “We will stop in Toran for resupplying and then head on to Darthen.”  
  
“And Darthen is where we will find another animus, yes?” Tungsten asked, leaning a bit closer to her, probably seeking warmth. It was horrendously chilly here and Alaris couldn't say she minded the contact.  
  
Alaris gnawed on a piece of dried meat. “That is my hope. As for the last, I've yet to catch even a stirring of their presence.”  
  
“Maybe Balaam's already killed him. Or her,” Sleet said, offhand.  
  
Iblion's eyes darkened. “We would know if one of our kind had perished,” he said shortly. “Though you have a point. Balaam is attacking only those that are alone first. He seems reluctant to directly confront us as a group.”  
  
“Reluctance has nothing to do with it.” Beryl kicked up against the tree, making himself comfortable. “He's toying with us. Playing with us until he can get us where he wants us.”  
  
“Speaking from experience?” Sleet asked, his interest sharper than Alaris had ever seen it.  
  
“More than yours.” Beryl smiled, but it showed a lot of teeth. “After all, we've seen how little you know Frayr.”  
  
Who on Lieve was Frayr?  
  
Sleet clenched his jaw, a muscle ticking visibly in his neck. “That is not Frost.”  
  
Oh. Alaris felt an incredible urge to roll her eyes, grab both thieves by the neck, and smash their faces together. In that, she felt a distinct kinship with Raven. Really? Did neither thief have a smidgen of self-respect? They were fighting over the same useless piece of garbage! The same garbage, might she add, that seemed to have no problem terrorizing the world!  
  
She cleared her throat noisily. “If you two wish to cat fight, do it somewhere else. We don't care about your personal squabbles.”  
  
“Seconded,” Iblion said with an annoyed huff.  
  
Beryl and Sleet traded glares but promptly shut their mouths. Ah, progress. She didn't know which was worse. Sleet's whining or his constant bickering with Beryl. She could do without either, and the headaches they produced.  
  
“Our course has been decided then,” Tungsten said, always eager to fill the uncomfortable silence and soothe bruised egos. The mage was Alaris' blessing, despite his clumsy naivete. He was the only one with any sense outside of Alaris herself. “Do we leave tomorrow?”  
  
“I see no reason to linger,” Alaris replied, granting Tungsten a small smile of gratitude. To her surprise, Tungsten reddened, the tips of his ears burning. How... strangely adorable. “We'll rise with the dawn and hopefully be in Toran by sunset.”  
  
“Good.” Sleet flopped a hand at them, sinking down against his tree and throwing his free arm over his eyes. “Wake me when it matters.”  
  
Alaris ignored him.  
  
Heimdal rose to his feet, dusting off his hands and pants. “Sounds like a good plan. I'll meet you here at first light then.”  
  
“Are you going to Malach?” Alaris asked.  
  
The deity nodded. “He'll need someone.” Heimdal's face was grim.  
  
A part of Alaris didn't want to know. She watched the deity leave with a heavy heart. There was no telling what the Kurai's backward, superstitious beliefs might lead to. Certainly nothing would go in Malach's favor.  
  
“I'll take first watch,” Iblion announced, standing and stretching his arms up above his head.  
  
He looked smaller somehow without his pair of axes. The Kurai had taken them, and as Iblion couldn't return to Elysium, the axes had to remain on the mortal plane as well. At least they would come back to him if he could ever return to his home.  
  
Alaris nodded, rising to her feet with the intention of checking on Raven. She would submit him to another round of healing before she went to sleep, if only for him to patch himself together faster. She needed Raven in top shape.  
  
“I'll take second,” Beryl offered.  
  
Sleet, unsurprisingly, did not volunteer for anything.  
  
“I'll take third,” Tungsten said.  
  
Alaris patted his shoulder. “No, Tungsten. I will be up early anyway. I shall take the third. Thank you, however.”  
  
The mage smiled up at her, his face reddening again.  
  
 _My child, surely you are not so blind_ , Hephaestion said, stirring within her mind, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.  
  
Alaris smiled back at Tungsten and picked her way through their campsite to Raven. ' _I am not_ ,' she replied to her nosy anima. ' _But now is not the time to indulge his infatuation.'  
  
Do you not return the interest?_  
  
She didn't know how to answer the question. She honestly hadn't considered Tungsten in that light. Her only focus had been Balaam, the impending war, and the possible destruction of every thing she ever held dear. Romance had been and still was very far down the list.  
  
 _'I don't know. Ask me when the war is done_.'  
  
There was an impression of someone squeezing her hand, Hephaestion's attempt at comfort. _And, my child, if you do not live to see the war end? Or he doesn't. What then?_  
  
 _'It won't matter,'_ Alaris replied, though her chest felt tight at the thought of any of them dying in this war. Ultimately, she wanted to live. ' _If I die or he dies, it will hurt either way. Better to save some pain.'_  
  
She knelt beside Raven, who was tucked in some blankets and near the fire. His color had returned and his leg showed no signs of infection. Good.  
  
Hephaestion sighed. _Spoken as one who has never opened her heart to another.  
  
'That's not true. You are very dear to me_,' Alaris replied, tossing a mental smirk at her anima. After all, she had known Hephaestion all her life, from the moment she was born. He had always been with her.  
  
 _I do not count, my child_ , Hephaestion said, though his words carried light humor. _I only wish that you would see what else there is to your life. It is too fleeting._  
  
She knew that all too well. ' _I know. And I appreciate the sentiment._ '  
  
Alaris tucked Raven back into the blankets after confirming all of his vitals were in optimal range. He would survive and be up to growling and insulting Sleet in no time. Odd how that was starting to feel like normal to her.  
  
She glanced around the campsite. Everyone but Iblion was already preparing to sleep, climbing into the meager blankets they had appropriated and huddling around the fire. Ashur was tucked under Iblion's arm, cuddled up next to the deity. Even Sleet and Beryl had deigned to share warmth.  
  
Actually, that didn't sound like a bad idea.  
  
Alaris returned to where she had left Tungsten, the mage huddled up against a rock face with his robes wrapped tightly around him. Said robes were as tattered as Alaris' own, as they had been stripped for bandage-worthy cloth.  
  
“You aren't asleep yet,” Alaris said, noticing that the mage had his casting rod out, fingers rubbing over the etched glyphs on the pale wood.  
  
“My mind is too occupied to rest,” Tungsten replied, tilting his head back, though his gaze didn't focus on her, but above them. To the stars poking through the edge of the forest canopy and the heavy, dark shadows of the mountains beyond.  
  
Alaris could relate. With all the worries she carried, it was hard to wind down enough to rest. There was far too much at stake.  
  
She sat down next to Tungsten, waiting for him to protest. When he didn't, she took it as tacit permission and leaned closer. It was much warmer here, with the boulder blocking the wind and Tungsten's body as a buffer on one side. He didn't protest her closeness either, though he did give her an odd look.  
  
“What are you thinking about?” Alaris asked, cringing at the awkwardness of the question. It felt forced and she cursed Hephaestion for putting ideas into her head.  
  
“Everything and nothing all at once.” A small laugh escaped Tungsten, but it didn't sound humored. He burrowed back against the boulder. “I'm a bit concerned, Alaris-san. We are outnumbered, outclassed, and Balaam keeps growing stronger.”  
  
Reassurance. Alaris wasn't sure she had any to offer. “We're not beaten yet,” she said. “We've still got a chance.” A small smile pulled at her lips. “Or has Sleet's pessimism rubbed off on you?”  
  
Tungsten tilted his head, amusement brightening his eyes. “Oh, I'm still an optimist. I just wonder how we're going to pull it off. It's one of many topics that keep me up at night.”  
  
“I never took you for a worrier.”  
  
He rapped his fingers over his knee. “Well, we've only been traveling together for a few weeks. We don't really know each other at all, do we?”  
  
Hmm. He had a point.  
  
Alaris chuckled. “We did sort of get thrown together.” She worked a hand out of the blankets, offering it to him. “I'm Alaris Callen. Orphaned as a babe and raised by the clergy at the Gwartney temple. You?”  
  
Tungsten's eyes sparkled. “Tungsten Vermillion. Only son of very, very protective parents. I broke their heart when I decided to leave home.”  
  
“Nice to meet you.” It felt silly, but also, absurdly normal.  
  
And nothing had felt normal in quite a long time.  
  
Tungsten tucked his hand back in the blankets, pushing closer to Alaris. “Do you know what happened to your parents?”  
  
“They died.” Alaris shrugged. Thinking of her parents wasn't a sore spot. How could she miss someone she'd never met? “A sickness I think. Or maybe they just abandoned me. The details didn't seem important.”  
  
Tungsten made a thoughtful noise in his throat. “That is a testament to your personal strength then. My parents are overbearing but I couldn't imagine my life without them.” His eyes turned downcast. “I wonder if they are safe.”  
  
“I doubt Balaam's attacked Nipon. As far as I'm aware, there weren't any animus there.”  
  
“We are still missing two,” Tungsten reminded her. “It's not impossible to think one of them could be in Nipon.” He frowned. “Or that Balaam would simply attack out of retaliation.”  
  
Alaris loosened her hair, letting it fall around her head and warm her ears. “Balaam has eyes for only two things: gaining more power and Sleet. As long as we have Sleet, he doesn't seem to care about us.”  
  
“Yes, that's really strange.” Tungsten looked at her, forehead scrunched with confusion. “What is it that Balaam wants? Or maybe it's all Frost's influence?”  
  
Alaris shuddered. “I don't know and I think it's better for my sanity that we keep it that way. Let the crazy deity have his equally crazy obsession. It'll keep us all a bit safer.”  
  
It was a bit cruel, perhaps, to all but throw Sleet to the wolves. But it was also practical. Alaris wasn't convinced Sleet was one that could be trusted. She was certain he would abandon them at the first opportunity.  
  
Loyalty wasn't in a thief's nature. Except, perhaps, to other thieves.  
  
“Sleet will come through for us,” Tungsten said. “I believe that.”  
  
Alaris smiled. “Ah. There's that optimism we know you for.”  
  
A small laugh escaped Tungsten. “At least so far anyway. Tell me something else.”  
  
“What do you want to know?”  
  
“Everything.”  
  
She laughed. “Everything could take a while.”  
  
He pressed closer; she didn't mind.  
  
“I'm not tired,” Tungsten said.  
  
It would be a long time before either of them went to sleep.  
  


* * *


	30. Wolf in the Fold - Chapter Nine

Sleet woke to the sensation of someone's boot in his ribs, prodding incessantly. He swatted at his assailant, peeling open tired eyes to find Raven looming over him.  
  
“Get your lazy ass up,” the mercenary demanded before stalking away, the effect ruined by the obvious limp on his left leg.  
  
Sleet groaned and rolled to his feet, wincing as his muscles protested the sudden movement. He was cold, too. His breath came out in short bursts of gray in the damp morning air.  
  
Everyone else was already awake, packing away what they had scraped together for supplies.  
  
Like Sleet, they all moved slowly. Ashur had dark circles under his eyes, and Iblion was muttering something about aching bones. No one looked happy to be awake.  
  
Sleet glanced at the sky. Dawn, just barely after. Ugh.  
  
“Come on, everyone,” Alaris said with a drawn-out sigh. “There is no use in lingering.”  
  
Heimdal had returned at some point in the night. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet at the edge of the forest, gesturing to an old, worn game trail. Despite that, his expression did not reflect optimism or eagerness. A nervous energy perhaps.  
  
“How long will it take us to get through Shadowglade?” Tungsten asked, the first to approach the anxious deity.  
  
“A few hours at the most,” Heimdal replied. “I'm going to take you the direct route.”  
  
Sleet rubbed at his eyes, ignoring the light conversation building between everyone else. His ears felt stuffed with cotton and he hadn't gotten near enough sleep. He couldn't relax cuddled next to Beryl. He kept expecting to wake up with a knife in his back, even if Beryl had been warm.  
  
He followed at the back of the crowd, but paused at the edge of the forest, looking back at Reiran. In the morning light, the consequences of the earthquake were more obvious. Half of the eastern face had collapsed. Large boulders had fallen down, pockmarking the ground.  
  
He wondered what the Kurai were going to do next. Living in Reiran was no longer a safe option. The mountain was unstable.  
  
Then again, it wasn't his problem.  
  
Sleet turned back to the forest, slipping onto the path just behind Iblion, whose broad shoulders blocked Sleet's view of everyone else. The deity didn't spare Sleet a glance, leaving him to his thoughts. Perfect.  
  
Above them, the sky rumbled. Sleet glanced up through the canopy of dark-green leaves. It was a dark, roiling grey above him. A storm was rolling in. Great.  
  
 _Iblion says it'll be on us by noon. It's a large storm. It'll follow us to Toran._  
  
Sleet sighed aloud. At least he'd managed to acquire a pair of boots. He wouldn't have to slog through the inevitable mud.  
  


 

o0o0o

  
  
  
  
  
True to Heimdal's word, it took them only a few hours to travel through Shadowglade, which wasn't nearly as ominous as the rumors had made it out to be.  
  
Sleet suspected that the Kurai had purposefully perpetrated those rumors in order to keep random visitors away from Reiran. The scariest thing to be found in Shadowglade was the argyle spider, about the size of a man's fist and the same color as the leaves on the surrounding trees. They weren't even venomous to humans, but they were terrifying to look at.  
  
Sleet didn't have a problem with spiders. One got used to them and their webs when you spent a lot of time skulking about in the dark and shadows.  
  
Raven, however, seemed to take great joy in slashing every argyle they found to bits. The sort of savage attacks that implied an element of fear behind the rationale.  
  
This amused Sleet greatly, though he refrained from teasing Raven. There was a wild look in the mercenary's eyes that didn't speak of sanity.  
  
The weather continued to hold by the time they emerged, in the same exact location as where they had been camping less than a week prior. As a matter of fact, evidence of their occupation was still here. A few of their packs were still tucked against the logs and two of their horses were grazing nearby.  
  
“Flurin!” Raven broke into a smile, his voice the happiest Sleet had ever heard it.  
  
True enough, one of the horses was Raven's mare. She nickered as Raven approached, running a hand through her mane. Despite being separated, Flurin didn't look the worse for wear. It helped that Raven had the habit of removing her saddle at night.  
  
“They didn't take much of anything,” Alaris said with audible surprise.  
  
She sat on one of the logs, pulling a bag into her lap and rifling through it. “Nothing's missing, aside from what few things I managed to take with me.” Said belongings which were now buried in Reiran.  
  
“No weapons,” Iblion said, kicking at the remains of their campfire, a piece of sooty wood catapulting into the woods. “They took every last one of those.”  
  
“What about the other horses?” Tungsten asked.  
  
“They probably took off,” Raven said, still patting his fingers over Flurin. “We might find them on the plains. Or they went back to Gwartney.”  
  
Something black careened out of the woods, cawing noisily into the air. It aimed straight for Raven, who turned and held out an arm, the smile on his face very disconcerting.  
  
Karasu. Sleet was amazed the crow had struck around to wait for its master.  
  
Tungsten had also discovered that some of his belongings were left behind. Namely a change of clothes, a few packets of herbs, and his books.  
  
Ashur's pack had survived, though there was little in it to begin with. Nothing of use to any of them, truth be told.  
  
Beryl hadn't anything on him when he joined.  
  
A stop in Toran would still be needed, Sleet realized. He wasn't getting out of going home just yet. Damn it.  
  
“What about coin?” Raven asked.  
  
Alaris' eyebrows rose. “All here,” she said, surprise evident in her tone.  
  
“What use would the Kurai have of coin in their isolated village?” Ashur said, sitting on the log with his own pack in his hand. “I suspect their economics is based on a barter system. Or common ownership.”  
  
Sleet stared. Not only was that some of the most he'd heard Ashur say, it also reeked of education. Something higher than the basic reading, writing, and arithmetic Sleet's mother had forced into her sons' heads.  
  
“Right.” Raven was also staring at Ashur. “Good for them. Now we'll at least have coin to buy more supplies in Toran.”  
  
Toran, Toran, Toran. Did they have to keep reminding Sleet where they were going?  
  
To add insult to injury, the first drop of rain landed on Sleet's neck, slithering down into his tunic. He shivered and glared up at the sky, the thick grey clouds heavy with impending rain.  
  
“This is where we part,” Heimdal said, still standing in the shadow of the forest, his grey clothing helping him blend. “I must return to Malach.”  
  
“We could really use your help,” Alaris said with a familiar wheedle to her tone.  
  
Heimdal' lips pinched together. “Do not discount our aid yet,” he said. “It remains to be seen what the Kurai will decide.”  
  
Hephaestion shimmered into view. “We will give you one week once we arrive in Toran,” he said, exchanging a glance with Alaris, who nodded her agreement.  
  
“A week!” Sleet exclaimed.  
  
All heads swiveled his direction.  
  
“Do you have a problem with that, Sleet?” Alaris demanded.  
  
Yes.  
  
“No,” Sleet said, his skin crawling as they stared at him. “It just seems a waste of time is all.”  
  
“Since when have you cared about the urgency of this quest?” Raven said, but it seemed rhetorical as he didn't wait for Sleet to reply. “A week should be enough time for us to resupply, rest, and recover.”  
  
Since when have you cared about whether or not we were in any shape to continue this stupid quest? Sleet thought snidely.  
  
“Good luck,” Heimdal said, cutting through the tension. He tipped his head in a shallow bow. “If there is justice, then Malach and I will join you soon.”  
  
He melted into the dim of the forest without another word.  
  
A fatter, heavier drop of rain splattered on Sleet's forehead. The sky rumbled noisily, strong enough that Sleet could feel it through the soles of his boots.  
  
“And that's our cue to leave,” Iblion said, his eyes flashing as he glanced up at the sky. “We're heading into the heart of the storm. It'll slow us down.”  
  
Alaris nodded. “All right. Raven, Ashur, up on the horses with the supplies. The rest of us will walk.”  
  
Sleet's day kept getting better and better.  
  


 

o0o0o

  
  
  
  
  
The storm didn't have the decency to be tolerable. Lightning split the sky in jagged bursts of gold. Rain fell down in sheets, obscuring their vision and turning the dirt road into a muddy sludge. Thunder rumbled so loudly that they couldn't hear each other speak, not that there was much conversation to be had.  
  
Sleet was so miserable he would have gladly skipped into Toran if only it would appear over the next rise in the land. He huddled in his thin cloak, glaring at the mud that splashed over the rim of his boots and soaked his feet.  
  
The horses were struggling, their pace had slowed to a crawl, and fatigue was the only thing that kept Sleet from whining about it.  
  
He sneezed.  
  
Damn it.  
  
Sleet wiped at his nose as it started to drip, and not as a consequence of the rain. There was also a tickle in the back of his throat. And his temperature kept wavering between too hot and freezing.  
  
Beside him, equally miserable, Tungsten sniffled. “What I wouldn't g-give for a warm c-cup of c-chamomile right n-now.” His teeth were chattering.  
  
Sleet half-expected the rain to turn to ice at any moment, much like his namesake. It was certainly cold enough, though the air didn't smell of snow. “Too weak,” Sleet argued, his stomach grumbling unappreciatively. He was hungry. “Give me a couple shots of whiskey. That'll warm us all right up.”  
  
“I don't drink.”  
  
Seriously? Maybe that was part of Tungsten's problem.  
  
Sleet peered at the mage. “You ought to start. You're going to be a hero, aren't you? There's some things you have to do before you start risking your life, you know.”  
  
By Aesir! Sleet would bet thirty coin down that Tungsten's never seen a woman naked. Or man, for that matter, though Sleet wouldn't bet on Tungsten being inclined toward the same sex.  
  
“I don't see a purpose in alcohol,” Tungsten said with a shrug and another sniffle. “Though I may reconsider. I fear I may never unfreeze my toes.”  
  
“You think this is bad?” Sleet snorted. “It's only mid-fall. Come back in a couple of months and this whole area will be buried under four feet of snow, and counting. It won't melt until late spring either.”  
  
Tungsten shook his head and dug a handkerchief out of his pocket, wiping his nose. “I don't understand. Geographically, we are as far north as Nipon but the weather is not nearly as bad at this time of year.”  
  
“That's because Nipon is a giant rain shadow whereas Toran and the land surrounding it are on the opposite side of it,” Ashur said hoarsely.  
  
Both Sleet and Tungsten looked up at the twin, who was huddled on the horse, his face pale and his nose a bright, cherry red.  
  
“I swear ta Aesir you're nothing more than a walking, talking book,” Sleet said.  
  
“That's not a bad thing,” Tungsten added with an earnest look at the pale kid.  
  
Sleet ignored Tungsten. “Books aren't going to help us get rid of Balaam.”  
  
“They might,” Tungsten retorted. “You can learn a lot from reading, Sleet-san. Maybe there's a book somewhere that tells us all about these bonds, or what Balaam is after, or something.”  
  
Sleet snorted and burrowed himself back in his cloak. He had no interest in hearing Tungsten's earnest speech. He was cold, miserable, and starving.  
  
He should have run away when he had the chance.  
  
He wandered away from Ashur and Tungsten, both of whom were starting to chat quietly now that Sleet was ignoring them. All the better.  
  
Sleet eyed their surroundings, already familiar but now even more so. The large boulder no one could move, the creek cutting across the land, the field of stumps which was a sea of yellow dandelions in late spring.  
  
They were close.  
  
He craned his neck, peering around their procession. The massive archway crafted of wood notched together, weathered by decades of storms but still standing, was in sight. Someone had carved the name of the town into a thick plank of wood recently, and they'd hung it from the arch of the entryway. It swayed in the wind, the chains creaking.  
  
Home.  
  
Dread poured over Sleet in a chilling wave.  
  
“We're almost there!” Alaris shouted, loud enough to be heard over the pounding rain, whistling wind, and endless thunder.  
  
Eagerness made them all hurry. Sleet thought longingly of warm beds, warm dinner, and hiding until they left Toran. With any luck, no one would remember him and he wouldn't have to acknowledge his familiarity with Toran.  
  
They passed under the archway and into the town proper, the main road wide and churned with wheel and horse tracks. There was plenty of room to move. The road was deserted, too. Unsurprising in this weather. The people of Toran were used to it, but no one went out in the torrential rain unless they had to. Why get wet if you didn't have to?  
  
“Where's the inn?” Tungsten asked.  
  
It was hard to see anything in the rain. Building signs were obscured and Toran had yet to invest in helpful sign posts to guide visitors.  
  
Sleet, of course, knew where it was. If nothing had changed in the past two years, it was three buildings up, down an alley, and on a corner. It was called Pa's Place, nice and cozy, with a fireplace large enough to warm all two floors and ten rooms. He supposed the massive kitchen oven helped with the warming, too. Madden ran a bakery out the back half of the inn and not an hour went by where she wasn't whipping up something tasty.  
  
They pressed on. Sleet didn't feel like playing the helpful guide.  
  
Raven spotted a sign, pointing the way. Well, that certainly was new. At least it wasn't a post, more like a hanging plank on the face of the butcher's shop.  
  
The alley provided a brief respite from the rain as the awnings overlapped, acting as an umbrella, but soon enough, they were out in the open again. The inn was a few tempting steps away and Tungsten wasn't the only one who let loose a ragged cheer.  
  
The sky rumbled.  
  
No, not the sky. The ground was shuddering beneath him.  
  
Sleet's face drained of color, remembering the earthquake in Reiran all too well. This felt different than that, shallower.  
  
“What is that?” he asked and found Tungsten sliding closer to him.  
  
Magic crawled through the air like static electricity, lashing out at Sleet and he leapt backward, dragging Tungsten with him.  
  
The air to Tungsten's right shimmered, Asclepius bouncing into view. “It's Heimdal,” she said, chewing on her bottom lip.  
  
Heimdal? Hadn't they left him a few day's journey to the south, and in Reiran at that?  
  
“But he's--”  
  
“He's the lord of the earth,” Asclepius replied with a bright grin. “That comes with a few useful perks.”  
  
The ground rumbled again before mud suddenly spewed into the air like a chunky geyser, spraying wet sod in all directions. Sleet threw up an arm, covering his eyes, and felt mud splatter over his clothes. Not that he wasn't already soaked and dirty. Insult on top of insult.  
  
He dropped his arm, peering through the sheets of rain, staring at a pair of men, kneeling where the ground had erupted mere moments before. One he recognized as Heimdal, the other... might have been Malach. It was difficult to tell because the man's head was bowed, and his hair was so short that Sleet's own crop was longer.  
  
Still, there weren't many men with hair that shade, unless Heimdal had picked up an old man from somewhere and decided to drag him along for the ride.  
  
Asclepius gasped, her humor dissolving. “What happened?” she demanded, the first of them to react as she rushed forward, hurrying to catch Heimdal before he planted face-first in the mud.  
  
“Long story,” the deity gasped out, leaning against Asclepius heavily, struggling to keep Malach propped up. “Long, long story.”  
  
Iblion appeared on Heimdal's other side, taking Malach's arm and prompting the man to lean against him. Malach was dead weight, unconscious and lolling bonelessly in Iblion's arms.  
  
Sleet edged closer, getting a better look. Malach's hair was gone, and there was a bright, raised mark on his forehead. Like it had been burned, branded. Sleet didn't recognize the symbol, suspecting it was in the language of the Kurai. He was dressed different now, in rags and tatters, lacking any kind of footwear and with no weapons.  
  
“Get them inside,” Alaris shouted over the pounding rain. Her hands waved in the air, gesturing to the inn that was a few doors down. “Malach's bleeding!”  
  
She was right. Sleet peered into the gloom and saw spatters of blood swirling in the muddy puddles on the ground. It wasn't coming from Malach alone though. Heimdal's arm looked like someone had hacked at it with a blunt weapon and one eye was clenched shut.  
  
The two of them looked to have been through the pits and back.  
  
Iblion hefted Malach over a shoulder, rescuer's carry, and between Alaris and Tungsten, they managed to get Heimdal on his feet.  
  
Asclepius led the way, lacking her usual exuberant bounce, though she did hurry. She pulled open the door to the inn, holding it for everyone to enter ahead of them.  
  
Walking into Pa's Place, Sleet was immediately blasted by a wave of welcome heat. His shoulders sagged with relief, his stomach grumbling at the scent of thick stew and fresh-baked biscuits.  
  
Nothing had changed in the past two years. Half of the main room was a large dining room, packed to the brim with chairs and people, hungry and eager to escape the cold. The other half was an inviting entryway, with a main desk, several decorative plaques on the wall, and a thick, hand-woven rug lining the wood floor. It was an old rug, passed down in the generations same as the inn itself.  
  
Pappi was standing behind the desk, but when the rowdy group came in, he'd moved around it, face pinched with concern. He didn't look any different either. A few more wrinkles around his eyes, his hair a bit grayer, but still the grouchy old man that Sleet remembered.  
  
“What's going on? Are you okay?” Pappi asked.  
  
Okay, so grouchy to a young Sleet and his group of miscreant friends. But overall, Pappi could be friendly when he wanted to be.  
  
“Should I get a healer?” Pappi also asked.  
  
They were starting to gather attention. All conversation in the dining area had stopped, a dozen pairs of eyes swiveling to the dripping, muddy grip with the interest of small-town folk who don't get much excitement.  
  
“No, thank you,” Alaris said and tried to dig into her pouch with one hand. “But if we could get a few rooms...?”  
  
“And dinner,” Raven prompted, leaning heavily against the wall, one hand gripping his left knee with a grimace.  
  
“Stewart?”  
  
He froze, recognizing that voice, and pulled the hood tighter around his face. He pretended he hadn't heard anyone say his name. His real name.  
  
“Stewart Upton!”  
  
Beryl nudged him with an elbow, his lips curved in a sly grin. “I think someone's talking to you, Stewart.”  
  
Damn them all to the Pits and back! Why did his mother have to choose today to eat dinner at Pa's Place? She used to harp on them about home-cooked meals and how she slaved over a hot stove all the time!  
  
A hand landed on his shoulder and Sleet surrendered to the inevitable. He turned around.  
  
There she was, half a head taller than him with a head full of brown curls, now liberally streaked with grey. She had a big smile on her face, though, and she did not hesitate to pull him into a hug, smooshing his face against her clavicle.  
  
“You're home!” his mother said, wrapping him into the embrace, pinning his arms at his sides. “By Sybaris, it's been years! Where have you been, Stewart!”  
  
“Mom,” he protested, squeaking out the word. By Aesir, she was squeezing the life out of him. “Now is not a good time.”  
  
“Poppycock!”  
  
Sleet grimaced. Yes, his mother was a wife of the old country and she spoke as such. Poppycock was her idea of a swear word. Woe be unto him if he'd uttered anything worse as a child.  
  
“Two years, son! Two years!” she protested and gave him another squeeze for good measure before finally releasing him from the embrace, holding him out an arm's length. “And yet, you haven't grown an inch!”  
  
The muffled noise from behind Sleet finally broke into all-out laughter as Beryl stopped bothering to contain himself.  
  
Sleet felt his face heat, and it had nothing to do with the heat of the fireplace. “Mom, I'm really busy right now. Can we talk about this later?” Like, in another decade or so if he could help it.  
  
She shook her head, hooking her arm around his. “No. You're coming home with me right now. You're soaked and freezing and you're getting sick. I can already tell it.”  
  
“I can't.” He tried to pull away but as always, it was pointless.  
  
His mother was as strong as an ox. Of course, she'd spent her whole life on a farm, hauling and hoeing and plowing and wrestling cattle.  
  
“I'm in the middle of something important,” Sleet added.  
  
Because Malach was still unconscious, Heimdal looked halfway there, and Raven was limping. Not that Sleet really cared but anything to convince his mother to let him go.  
  
His mother turned her head, finally noticing the group of similarly muddy, soaked, and pathetic people that had accompanied her son inside. They were staring at Sleet and his mother in return.  
  
“Sleet, you...?” Tungsten looked confused, his gaze darting back and forth between Sleet and the woman clutching him.  
  
Sleet knew how much he resembled his mother. It was embarrassingly uncanny. If not for the difference in eye color, they'd be almost a match. Oh, Sleet was a touch shorter, and he cut his hair short enough that the curl didn't matter, but he had the same angled chin and face shape.  
  
“Sleet?” His mother repeated with an amused tone. “Is that what you're calling yourself these days?”  
  
Sleet's shoulders sagged. “Can we not get into this right now?”  
  
“Well, as wonderful as this family reunion is, we have injured to take care of,” Alaris said loudly, tossing a brief glare in Sleet's direction. “Sir, could we get those rooms?”  
  
“Rooms? Nonsense!” Sleet's mother released him, but he entertained no notions of fleeing. There was nowhere to go. “We have plenty of room at the farm. And you are Stewart's friends.”  
  
Alaris looked ready to protest.  
  
Sleet knew her attempts would be fruitless. His mother was a force of nature, one Sleet barely escaped two years ago.  
  
She would not take no for an answer.  
  
He watched as his mother bustled everyone into a group, convinced Pappi to pot up some stew to go, summoned a wagon to transport the injured, and wouldn't let Alaris argue otherwise.  
  
“Your mother,” Beryl said, from the corner of his mouth as he sat next to Sleet, squished into the confines of the wagon. “She's... interesting.”  
  
Sleet snorted. “She's insane. Just wait. You'll see.”  
  
He knew that coming to Toran would be a bad idea.  
  
He should have run away when he had the chance.  
  
  
  
  
****


	31. Interlude: Sleet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude (Nine Chapters): The eye of the storm, the calm between one battle and the next. Our crew stop in Toran to rest, resupply and consider their next moves. Idle minds have nothing to do but wander and the past never stays quiet.

His room had not changed.  
  
His bed was only half-made, the sheets fitted back into place but the quilt rumpled and half-dangling on the floor. Clothes scattered over his desk and chair. The charcoal marks he'd drawn on the ceiling, to represent the stars, were still there, if a bit faded. There were pockmarks in the wall next to the window, where he'd spent hours tossing a dagger out of boredom.  
  
Sleet was going to be here a week, just like everyone else. Alaris and Hephaestion decreed they could use the down time. Malach needed to heal and Raven did, too.  
  
They claimed a week could be spared.  
  
Sleet snorted. So much for a sense of urgency. For once, he was the one that wanted to move on as soon as possible. He didn't want to be home.  
  
Due to space issues, he would have to share his old room with Beryl. So now he was trapped in a place he didn't want to be, sharing a confined space with a man he didn't like.  
  
Fun.  
  
 _Sleet_.  
  
He threw his bag on his bed, half the contents spilling out. “What?”  
  
 _I will be out of contact for a week._  
  
Sleet glared at nothing. “What do you mean, out of contact? You're the one that's been badgering me to listen to you more often!”  
  
 _I don't have a choice_ , Erebus said. _This is the only chance we have to summon a Conclave. I must attend._  
  
“What in Aesir's name is a conclave?”  
  
 _A meeting of the gods._ Erebus paused noticeably. _Those of us that still remain at any rate. And others that have no direct interaction with the mortal world._  
  
“And this is going to take a week?”  
  
 _At the most. I may be back sooner._  
  
Sleet threw up his hands. “Whatever. I could use the vacation anyway.”  
  
 _I'll miss you, too._  
  
Without so much as a goodbye, Sleet felt Erebus' presence disappear from his mind. It was like a nagging itch in the back of his skull had up and vanished. He felt lighter, like he could breathe easier.  
  
“Erebus?”  
  
Silence. What a novel concept.  
  
Sleet exhaled, slumping down onto his old bed, which felt as lumpy as it always did. A whole week of silence. He couldn't ask for a better gift. At least one thing about this unwelcome visit to Toran wouldn't be so bad.  
  
The door to his bedroom slammed open.  
  
“Well,” Beryl said, sweeping into the room without any preamble. “Isn't this quaint?” His eyes sparkled with malicious intent. “The birthplace of Sleet Underwood. Oh, pardon me. I meant Stewart Upton.”  
  
Sleet's spine went rigid as he glared at the blond. Beryl was enjoying this far too much.  
  
“What do you want?” he demanded.  
  
Beryl grinned and shoved some linens off the lone chair in the room, flopping himself down in it. “To make myself at home. Your mother insisted, after all.” He propped his legs up on Sleet's old linen trunk. “She's great, by the way. Whatever manners she taught you must not have stuck.”  
  
Sleet worked his jaw. “Kindly get your feet off my furniture.”  
  
There was an unnatural urge to drag Beryl out of his room by the curl of his blond hair. This was Sleet's home, his personal room, his personal space. He never even had to share it with either of his brothers. He certainly didn't want to share it with a man he loathed.  
  
“That's not how you treat guests. Tsk, tsk.” Beryl shook his head from side to side and laced his fingers behind his head, making himself comfortable.  
  
“You're not a guest. You're a nuisance.” Sleet's hands curled into fists.  
  
Beryl chuckled. “Poor you. So out of your element. This must be killing you.” He tilted his head. “I wonder what Frayr would say if he could see you like this.”  
  
No matter what, Beryl always turned the conversation back to Frost. Were they supposed to be warring for Frost's affections or something?  
  
“It doesn't matter what Frost thinks,” Sleet retorted, and stormed across the floor, snatching his bag from his bed.  
  
Fuck it. He's not going to share this space with Beryl. He'd rather sleep in the barn. In fact, that's just what he was going to do.  
  
“What are you doing?” Beryl asked.  
  
“Leaving.” Sleet slung his bag over his shoulder and whipped open his bedroom door.  
  
His mother was standing on the other side of it, brown eyes wide and surprised, one hand lifted to knock.  
  
“Oh, Stewart. Settling in all right?” she asked, all smiles and grasping hands reaching for a hug.  
  
He sidestepped her with ease. “Just fine, Ma. I'm going to head out to the barn, okay?” He hurried down the stairs, easily avoiding the third step which always creaked.  
  
“Okay.” She frowned. “But don't be long! Supper will be ready soon.”  
  
Sleet didn't respond, and caught the tail end of her saying something to Beryl, who of course had something smart to reply. Sleet tried his best to ignore it, creeping down the hallway of his own childhood home, past the entry to the common room where his Pa was stoking the fire, and out the back door without having seen another member of his group. Thank Aesir for small favors.  
  
Outside, the sky was a dull, flat grey. It was going to storm later. He could see the distant flashes of lightning over the mountains. An hour, maybe two, and it would start pouring. Good. That meant the others were less likely to leave the house and go searching for him.  
  
Hiking his bag over his shoulder, Sleet made for the barn, which was looking a little saggy around the mid-section since the last time he saw it. The wood was further faded, peeling on the sun-facing side, and the hinges creaked and rattled as he pulled open the side door.  
  
The musty scent of old and fresh hay and animals invaded his nose. Sleet sneezed, and then again for good measure. Had he really been gone so long the odor was unfamiliar to him?  
  
Apparently so.  
  
He passed the stalls, a bit disappointed to find that Geiger's stall was empty. The old stallion must have succumbed to age. Geiger was about the only non-human resident that Sleet bothered to appreciate. Well, there was Tonk, but that cat was more cantankerous than affectionate.  
  
Sleet climbed the ladder up into the loft, pleased to discover huge bales of hay. It would be no problem to shift those around, make himself a comfortable bed. They, along with the quilt he'd snagged from his bed, would do just fine.  
  
Beryl could sleep on bare mattress for all he cared.  
  
His bag hit the floor with an idle thump and Sleet got to work, pushing and pulling and tugging until he'd made a platform of sorts. He sneezed multiple times, like a kid from the city. Above him, the sound of pebbles on wood echoed throughout the barn – the rain had started. He could feel the drop in temperature.  
  
He spread out the quilt, toed off his boots, and sprawled across his makeshift bed, folding his arms behind his head. Too bad it was raining. He could have opened the roof hatch, looked out at the stars. He used to do that all the time as a kid. The barn was his favorite hiding place. Sadly, not from his brothers, but from his mother.  
  
She never did get over not having a daughter. Sleet was her substitute. And he'd like to bury those memories in the back of his brain, thank you very much.  
  
It took a moment of pause for Sleet to realize he was waiting for Erebus to make a smart comment. And then the disappointment that followed was even more irritating. Damn but he was actually getting used to the deity's voice.  
  
The sky rumbled, thunder rolling and echoing through the barn. Downstairs, the horses made anxious noises, pawing at the ground of their stalls. It grew darker and darker in the barn but Sleet was no stranger to darkness.  
  
Alaris would have griped about it. She would have demanded he gather blankets and lanterns and all matter of things to suit her comfort.  
  
Sleet frowned, closing his eyes. The last thing he wanted to do was think about his unfortunate companions. There was a reason he'd exiled himself to the barn.  
  
He could, he realized, leave.  
  
No one would know if he slipped out of the barn, used the storm as a cover, and vanished into the night. He couldn't take a horse because the thunder would spook it, but Sleet was no stranger to hard travel either. He could walk to town, wait for the storm to pass, buy some transportation and make a clean getaway.  
  
Where would he go from there? What would he do?  
  
Sleet turned on his side, listening to the rain's steady patter on the roof.  
  
It would be impossible to return to his previous life. Thieving for a living, bouncing from one cheap apartment to the next, looking for the next biggest score. His dislike for Alaris aside, the priestess was right about one thing, Balaam wouldn't rest until he'd destroyed everything. And Sleet couldn't very well live in a world that had been destroyed.  
  
Fighting alongside Alaris and her merry band of idiots, however, was no more appealing than living in a world of ruin.  
  
Besides, if he left, how would he find Frost? And why, he asked himself, did it matter so much? Why did he care what happened to Frost?  
  
Sleet sighed audibly, throwing himself to his back once more, slinging an arm over his eyes. Sleeping in the barn while it rained used to bring him all kinds of peace. Somehow, all it made him do now was think, think, think.  
  
Dinner was actually starting to sound appealing. He wondered if he could sneak in, grab a serving, and sneak back out before his mother spotted him. She would drag him to the table, force him to sit and participate in polite chit-chat.  
  
Ugh.  
  
There was a rustle.  
  
Sleet froze, slowly lowering his arm from his eyes. He peered into the dark but it was difficult to see much of anything. He could still hear the horses below him, pawing and huffing and making noise, but this wasn't a similar sound. It was different. It screamed intent.  
  
He sat up on his makeshift bed, listening. He knew every shift and creak of this old barn. Some of it was just the aged wood settling.  
  
There was a scrape, barely audible. Sleet's head swiveled toward the roof hatch. It was closed otherwise the rain would be pouring in, but he was certain the sound had come from that direction.  
  
He shifted to a crouch, wincing as the hay crackled and rustled beneath him. He could no longer play the sleeping victim now. Whoever was in here with him would know he was alert.  
  
Though how he hadn't heard them climb the ladder was a feat into itself. That thing groaned when a cat hopped up it, much less someone with the weight of a human.  
  
Sleet's hand slipped to his thigh and the dagger he kept sheathed there. He'd acquired it from a warrior in Reiran, with the Kurai – and Alaris – none the wiser.  
  
The shadows shifted. Sleet could just barely make out movement in the dim and it approached his makeshift bed.  
  
He debated for all of a fraction of a second before he decided offense was the best defense. If he was wrong, he'd get some bruises. If he was right, he might save his life. Sleet sucked in a soft breath and sprang, throwing himself at the intruder.  
  
Sleet felt himself collide with another warm body, the two of them crashing to the wood floor with a loud thud. He smelled a familiar scent, wood shavings and sandalwood and rain storms, and then he was flying through the air, the intruder tossing Sleet over his head as though he weighed nothing.  
  
He landed on a stack of hay, sending one of the bales crashing over the edge of the loft and to the ground floor. A horse neighed in startled fear and Sleet groaned, head spinning. He struggled to right himself, empty fingers telling him he'd lost his dagger somewhere. Damn it. He never could hold on to that thing.  
  
Soft chuckles spilled into the night. Sleet froze. He knew that laughter.  
  
Two of the lanterns burst to life, filling the loft with a soft orange glow, illuminating Sleet's ridiculous sprawl in the hay, and the man standing a couple of feet away, looking down at him with amusement and fondness.  
  
Frost.  
  
Sleet shoved his elbows behind him, trying to get upright, and stared as Frost unfolded his arms, offering a hand to Sleet.  
  
“You're getting bolder,” Frost said, his husky tones carrying the familiar cadence that was Frost and not the sibilant leer that defined Balaam's possession. “Though I never took you for the leap and not look type.”  
  
Sleet narrowed his eyes, accepting the hand if only to regain some of his dignity. “Yeah, well, someone's been trying to kill me lately. Self-preservation and all.”  
  
Frost tugged him to his feet, but didn't immediately let go, his free hand rising to grip Sleet's chin, tilting his head back. He was forced to look upward, into Frost's eyes, and winced at the flickering behind once-familiar irises.  
  
Balaam might not be speaking, but he was still present, watching if not participating.  
  
“Your death was never my intention,” Frost murmured, uncharacteristically soft. His fingers stroked gentle paths down Sleet's throat.  
  
He should have jerked away, but he didn't. He thought, hoped actually, that he could finally get some answers. The others weren't here to interrupt. Balaam was keeping his silence for now.  
  
“Funny you should mention that,” Sleet said. “Because I'm pretty sure that chimaera was doing its level best to stab me.”  
  
Irritation flickered sharp and brief in Frost's eyes. “A cruel joke, perpetuated not by me but the one who shares my flesh.”  
  
“Creepy.”  
  
Frost arched a brow. “You, too, share your body, do you not?”  
  
Sleet forced out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, I've got a parasite. But, lucky for both of us, there's nobody home right now.”  
  
Frost's grip on his hand loosened, sliding down to encircle his wrist, fingers kneading a soft rhythm over his skin. “Yes, lucky indeed.”  
  
Sleet's breath hitched, Frost's scent filling his nose, Frost's heat so tangible compared to the ambient chill. The thunderstorm wasn't making it any warmer in here.  
  
“Why are you here if not to kill me?” Sleet demanded, and fought back a shiver as Frost's hand slid back up from his throat to cup his head, thumb brushing over his lips.  
  
Desire should have no place here. But Sleet's dick didn't operate on the same wavelength as the rational half of his brain.  
  
He remembered Balaam's possessive touches, the forced pleasure.  
  
But Frost was the one in front of him now. Frost was the man who made him lust like no other, and Sleet longed for the previously uncomplicated nature of their relationship. Pleasure was easy, simple. This right-wrong, good-evil dichotomy was exhausting.  
  
Frost's lips curled into a slow, sensual smile. “Why, Sleet,” he purred, face inching closer, “I would have thought that were obvious.”  
  
Their mouths met. Logically, Sleet should be trying to wriggle free, fighting for his life, shouting for help. He should not be submitting, free hand clutching desperately to Frost's tunic, his mouth opening to allow Frost's tongue entrance, moaning into the kiss.  
  
Sleet's heart hammered in his chest, desire sluicing through his veins. He pressed closer to Frost, feeling the rigid outline against his abdomen. Sleet shuddered, eyes sliding closed. His breeches grew tight, uncomfortable.  
  
He was an idiot.  
  
Frost purred against his mouth, drawing out of the kiss to briefly suck on his bottom lip. “I'm going to fuck you,” he murmured, harsh words incongruent with the way he dropped light kisses across Sleet's jaw. “I'm going to strip you down and make you scream.”  
  
Sleet shivered, another moan escaping him. “And then you'll kill me?”  
  
Frost laughed, fingers tightening on Sleet's wrist before he whirled them around, shoving Sleet backfirst toward a nearby stack of hay. He sprawled across the even stack, feeling it prickle and itch at his skin, but then Frost was there, covering him, hands sliding up Sleet's abdomen and tugging his tunic along with them.  
  
“Maybe later,” Frost said.  
  
Fear struck, but it drizzled away as the tunic was dropped behind him and Frost's hand smoothed over his chest, fingers plucking at a nipple. Sleet swallowed down a cry, arching toward Frost's hand, his own reaching for his breeches with fumbling fingers, tugging at the strings.  
  
“Or,” Frost continued, hands moving down to bat Sleet's away, ripping open the breeches and tugging them down with jerky movements, “you could make a truly intelligent decision. You could join me.”  
  
Sleet's mouth opened and closed, looking up at Frost with confusion. “Join you?”  
  
Frost's body covered his, pushing him down into the crackling hay. It scratched at his bare skin, but it was a minor annoyance compared to the sensation of Frost's hands sliding down his chest, his sides, his hips. One palm curled over his groin, cupping his cock, giving it a firm stroke.  
  
Sleet's breathing hitched, hips jerking toward Frost's hand, his own landing on Frost's shoulders, fingers digging in deep. His head pushed back, mouth open, drawing in a deep breath, and Frost took advantage of this vulnerability.  
  
He pressed his face to Sleet's throat, exhaling warm and wet before his tongue emerged, tracing teasing paths with lips and teeth.  
  
“Come with me,” Frost said, maneuvering himself between Sleet's legs, still clothed but insistent. “You don't belong with them and you know it.”  
  
Sleet shivered, swallowing thickly. It was hard to think with the pleasure clouding his thoughts, his cock throbbing and eager, Frost's scent surrounding him. He kept waiting for Frost to grab him, to take as had always been between them, but the caresses continued, turning his body into a slow throb of molten heat.  
  
“I'm not a fan of killing people,” Sleet retorted, squirming beneath Frost, his cock throbbing and eager. “Or destroying things.”  
  
Frost nuzzled his throat before drawing back, eyes dark and unreadable. “It's not merely about destruction. It's about regaining what is owed.”  
  
“That doesn't make any sense.”  
  
“It will,” Frost promised and he captured Sleet's lips again, kiss more forceful, tongue plunging inside as though intending to lay claim.  
  
Sleet moaned. This, at least, was more familiar. He clutched at Frost's back, felt the shift and flex of muscles beneath the thin tunic, his hips juttering up toward Frost's. Sex was simple and he'd rathered Frost did just fuck him rather than this soft, seducing whatever the hell this was.  
  
Not that it wasn't pleasant, because it was and that was the problem in itself. Sleet writhed beneath Frost, drunk on the caresses, the soft slide of clothing against his front in counterpoint to the prickly itch of the hay behind him. Frost's fingers drew patterns on his rigid length before dipping downward, cupping his balls and giving them a light squeeze.  
  
Sleet moaned, fingers digging into Frost's back, panting audibly. His groin tingled, ecstasy building in his veins. And still Frost continued, fingers stroking downward, teasing the rim of his ass, circling the puckered bud over and over, dipping against the indent with a light pressure. The muscle clenched, flexed and Sleet shuddered.  
  
Begging words danced on the tip of his tongue and he was glad that Frost was still kissing him, still devouring his mouth.  
  
Traitor. He imagined that's what Raven would call him.  
  
How many times had Frost's cronies tried to kill him? How many times had he stared death in the face and been lucky? Could he even call it luck?  
  
How many thousands of people had Frost killed already? How many towns destroyed?  
  
Yet, here Sleet was, wordlessly begging, a sweaty, writhing mess beneath Frost. He whimpered when Frost's fingers withdrew, and moaned when they returned, coated in oil, first one and then a second pushing up into him. Twisting and curling, prodding against the sensitive nub within him.  
  
Sleet's body arched, pleasure ricocheting through his body. His thighs trembled, pressing hard against Frost's legs, pre-come dribbling from his cock.  
  
“Come with me,” Frost said against his lips, mouth journeying outward to nibble at Sleet's ear, damp exhalations as teasing as they were arousing. “Join me.”  
  
Sleet's grip tightened, heart a fierce rhythm in his chest. He shivered as Frost's teeth tugged on his ear and moaned as his fingers vanished, only to be replaced by the blunt head of Frost's length, pushing excruciatingly slow into him.  
  
Denial danced on the tip of his tongue and Sleet wasn't even sure why he should tell Frost no, save that it was on instinct.  
  
“You would no longer have to fight,” Frost continued, sliding into him, hot and thick and perfect, hands gripping Sleet's hips, tilting him upward for the best angle. “You wouldn't have to put up with these self-righteous fools.”  
  
Sleet whined, back arching, legs clamping tight. “What would I do?” he gasped, eyes shuttering closed, surrendering to sensation. “Warm your bed for you?”  
  
Frost chuckled, leaning down, nose sliding along Sleet's cheek, down the curve of his jaw, to his vulnerable throat once more. His mouth latched on, right over his pulse, tongue flicking out. “If you prefer,” he murmured.  
  
Sleet dug his fingers in, bruise-worthy if he were any stronger. Frost bottomed out, sheathed to the hilt, and he clenched down, feeling Frost throb within him. Pleasure skittered like flashes of lightning up and down his spine.  
  
He felt dizzy, dream-like. Maybe this wasn't happening at all. Maybe he was just dreaming, pretending, though he couldn't remember ever fantasizing about something like this before.  
  
Frost slid out of him, achingly slow, and pushed back in with equal deliberation. He raked over every sensitive spot within Sleet, making the pleasure coil tighter and tighter in his gut. His cock jerked, precome slithering out over the tip and Sleet moaned when Frost wormed a hand between their bodies, wrapping warm fingers around it.  
  
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Sleet managed on the edge of a gasp, sweat painting his body, making the hay stick to his skin. “I'm nobody's sex toy.”  
  
Frost squeezed and stroked, thumb sweeping over the head of Sleet's cock, dragging out the pleasure. His rhythm picked up, a little faster now, but still deep with each thrust. Sleet shuddered, muscles clenching and unclenching, pleasure spiraling tighter and tighter. Not even the half-hearted conversation was enough to distract him.  
  
“My Sleet,” Frost purred, a sound which seemed to travel straight through Sleet's ears and into his groin. “You will always be mine, toy or otherwise.”  
  
Release rattled through him and Sleet arched, pressing up against Frost, spurting over Frost's fingers. His entire body shook, heat bathing him head to toe. He panted, drawing in desperate breaths, clinging to Frost as his pulse pounded erratically.  
  
Frost stroked him through the tremors, and then began to thrust in earnest, seeking his own release. He let go of Sleet's cock, grabbed Sleet's hips with both hands, and plunged, deeper and deeper with each push.  
  
Sleet moaned, letting go of Frost and reaching up behind him, getting a handful of hay and hanging on for the ride. Frost held nothing back, eyes dark and hungry as he watched Sleet squirm, hips pistoning in and out, harder and harder.  
  
This, at least, was more familiar. Gone was the strange lovemaking, replaced by a carnal need, desperate to be filled.  
  
Frost gasped, a sound filling his chest not unlike a growl, and snapped his hips forward. He buried himself deep and Sleet felt the heat spilling inside of him, Frost's cock pulsing as he came. His fingers clenched, sure to leave bruises on Sleet's hips.  
  
Sleet grimaced at the thought of the sticky mess, and reckoned he'd be quite sore later. The tenseness in his own body eased as Frost shuddered through his release, exhaling harshly.  
  
He dropped, blanketing Sleet with his body, stealing his lips for another of those forceful, claiming kisses. Sleet surrendered to it, heat gradually wicked away by the heat in the air, the rain continuing loudly above them.  
  
Frost loosed his hold on Sleet's hips, sliding upward, over his sides, across his chest, until he cupped Sleet's head between them. His thumbs brushed across Sleet's cheeks, the kiss gentling to a taste, a slide of tongues and leisurely exploration until Frost ended it.  
  
“Join me,” Frost said again, their faces mere inches apart, his eyes darker now, and more focused. The sheen of something not-Frost glinted behind them.  
  
Sleet swallowed thickly. “No,” he said, and he wasn't even sure why he declined.  
  
The threat of Balaam's presence might have had something to do with it. Whatever the deity wanted, it wasn't to keep Sleet alive. That much had been made obvious.  
  
Frost twitched, exhalation coming out in an irritated burst. “You would choose to stay with these fools?” he demanded. “You are not one of them! You will never be like them!”  
  
Would Frost kill him if he continued to say no?  
  
Sleet pulled his arms down, curling his fingers around Frost's wrists, more aware than ever of Frost's weight blanketing him. “I don't even know what you're after,” he argued, and ironically, he wished Erebus were here. At least then he wouldn't be facing this alone. “I don't want to become a murderer.”  
  
Granted, he wasn't keen on becoming some kind of hero either.  
  
“I am not a murderer!” Frost growled, a visible shudder racing through his body.  
  
His eyes flashed, the lanterns in the room flared, and Sleet shrank back, fear making his pulse race. He squirmed, trying to get out from under Frost, feeling Frost slip free of him.  
  
“Let me go,” Sleet demanded, gripping Frost's wrists, trying to pull his hands free. “Frost, damn it!”  
  
“No.” Frost's weight fell down over him, pinning him place. “You need to understand. You have to see-- stop!” His voice changed timbre and Sleet stiffened, a cold chill sliding down his spine.  
  
Something in the air shifted, like a prickle across his skin, the feeling before lightning struck.  
  
Sleet stared as Frost's face rippled, like something trying to break free. Words escaped him. Thunder rumbled and somehow, Sleet didn't think it was a natural occurrence.  
  
“You have to – I need you to--” Frost broke off, sounding confused.  
  
His grip loosened.  
  
Sleet wasn't sticking around to find out why. He heaved upward, throwing himself onto his front, trying to scramble out from beneath Frost.  
  
Hands scrabbled at his back and Sleet jabbed an elbow behind him, making contact and feeling it reverberate up his arm. His arm went briefly numb, but he threw that aside, scrambling over the hay. It scratched and tore at his bare skin, but he didn't care.  
  
He dove over the other side, hitting the rough wood floor, scraping his palms. Sleet hissed, stinging pain rising up. He threw a look over his shoulder, crouching on hands and knees.  
  
The shadows were alive. They had risen up, wrapping around Frost like they had sentience. It was terrifying, like nothing he'd – no, he had seen this before. Once, in Nename, right after Frost or Balaam or whichever of them it was had killed Sybaris and her animus.  
  
“No,” Frost hissed, hands clutching his head, bent over double. “It must – consent has – won't work if you--”  
  
Sleet backed away slowly, spying his breeches on the floor and snatching them, sliding into them. He felt less vulnerable clothed, and was hyper-aware of the come drying on his groin and between his thighs.  
  
Sex toy, he wasn't. Strange how he still felt like one.  
  
One hand loosed itself, slicing through the air, and Frost staggered backward, tendrils of darkness wrapping more firmly around them. He visibly clenched his teeth, a half-crazed look on his face, lips drew back in a snarl.  
  
“Our agreement!” he shouted as Sleet's back hit a post.  
  
He glanced around the loft. The ladder was nearby. The thought of racing out of here, going for backup, made his insides twist with humiliation. Raven would never let him down, especially with the stink of sex still clinging to the air.  
  
“It is met,” Frost snarled and suddenly went still. The frantic rippling of the darkness smoothed itself out.  
  
Frost straightened, hands lowering to his sides, and his eyes... those weren't Frost's eyes when they swung to look at Sleet. It was Balaam and though they hadn't changed color or anything outwardly obvious, Sleet knew.  
  
“He will not protect you for much longer,” Frost said, and the lanterns suddenly dimmed, making him barely visible. “The time will come when you must choose: death or life. Until then...” His lips curled into a smile that made Sleet cold to the core. “Rest well, dear Sleet.”  
  
Darkness curled up from the floor, surrounding Frost entirely. He tilted his head, smile widening, and then he was gone, taking with him the light of the lanterns. The lit wicks snuffed out as suddenly as they'd burst to life.  
  
The barn was quiet, even the animals downstairs silent. The rain still beat a pattern on the roof, but it was softer. The storm was heading out.  
  
By contrast, Sleet's breathing was all too loud.  
  
He didn't want to name it fear, but there was no better definition for the feeling churning through his gut.  
  
Frost would return, maybe not tonight, but at some point in the future. And Sleet was sure saying no was not an option anymore.  
  
What the hell had he gotten himself into?  
  


  
***


	32. Interlude: Alaris

There was blood on the sheets. Sleet's mother had assured her that she could get them out, but the stains bothered Alaris. Dark spots of rust against once-cream sheets, lovingly washed day in and day out, hung in the sun to dry.  
  
This was the master bedroom and the Uptons had given it over to Malach without a second thought. They wouldn't let Alaris argue otherwise and had helped her carry the moaning, twitching body upstairs. They hadn't griped about the blood on the floor, or the dirt caking his clothes, or even when Alaris snapped at them, stressed to the point of breaking herself.  
  
The Uptons were patient and kind and giving and Alaris was having a hard time believing they were Sleet's parents at all. This was truly a case of an apple falling far, far from the tree. Sleet had fallen, rolled across two continents, and sat rotting under some forgotten bush.  
  
 _Alaris_.  
  
She sighed, rubbing her fingers over her forehead. “You can't deny that he is more trouble than he is use.”  
  
Hephaestion's indulgent affection was like a balm to the frenetic energy inside of her. _Perhaps. But he is still here._  
  
A good point. If one ignored the fact Sleet was here to serve his own purpose. He wanted Frost for whatever reason and only stuck around for it.  
  
 _I don't think Sleet really knows what he wants_ , Hephaestion said dryly. _He has finally accepted Erebus but I've learned that it only offered more questions for our querulous Sleet. Not answers._  
  
Her head was beginning to ache. Alaris rubbed harder at her temples. “Can we change the subject? I'm done talking about Sleet.”  
  
 _As you wish_. Hephaestion nudged her with affection. _I didn't actually seek you out to discuss the errant thief. I wanted to let you know that I will be attending a Conclave._  
  
“Again?”  
  
 _The war is progressing faster than any of us could have anticipated. There is much to discuss._  
  
Alaris sighed and leaned over, dipping her rag into a bowl of water and squeezing out the excess. “I understand.”  
  
 _I know that you do. Please inform Iblion of my departure. I do not know whether he can receive the summons in his current state,_ Hephaestion added, sounding further distracted.  
  
Alaris inclined her head. “I will tell him. Good luck.”  
  
 _Thank you._ There was something like a nudge to her mind, a brush of affection. _Be careful. I have seen one too many mind-walkers lose themselves to fever dreams. And the truly skilled ones drag everyone in proximity down with them._  
  
Great.  
  
Alaris sighed again and returned her attention to Malach, dabbing the wet rag over Malach's face, gently wiping away dirt and blood and dead tissue. She felt when Hephaestion went absent from her mind, leaving a great emptiness behind. This was the worst part of the bond, the loneliness when he was gone for whatever reason.  
  
She had gotten used to it over the years, but it was never easy.  
  
Alaris wiped more blood from Malach's face, careful of the burnt symbol on his forehead, the flesh around it raised and blackened. It wasn't a glyph she recognized and suspected it was unique to the Kurai alone. No doubt they had branded him a traitor or worse.  
  
Barbarians.  
  
She squeezed the rag into the bowl, wetting it again. Malach was covered in blood from head to toe. It clogged his hair, what little of it remained, and it was worse on his back, or what was left of the ruin of his back. They had taken a firebrand to it as well, searing flesh down the line of his spine and out in a vaguely triangular pattern.  
  
She had never seen anything so horrific and had expended most of her energy in healing the grotesque wound. She had done enough to forestall infection, but it would scar, much like Raven's eye had scarred. There was only so much she could do. Alaris was talented in the healing arts and she had Hephaestion to bolster her, but she could not work miracles.  
  
Malach slept, if one could call it that, fitfully. He murmured in a language she only understood bits and pieces of. He sweated, caught in a fever dream, occasionally thrashing on the sheets.  
  
It reminded her all too much of Alyssa.  
  
The feeling of magic flashed through the room. “I'm sure Hephaestion has already told you of the Conclave.”  
  
It took all of Alaris' will not to startle like a child. She whipped her head around, pinning Heimdal with a fierce glare. “A little warning next time would be appropriate.”  
  
He gave her a bland look. “I called your name twice. I assumed you were ignoring me or lost in thought. Either way, I needed your attention.”  
  
Biting back a sharper retort, Alaris turned her attention back toward Malach. “Yes, Hephaestion told me. I assume that means you will be leaving to attend as well.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Why he felt the urge to inform her, Alaris did not know. She was no more Heimdal's leader than he was her subordinate. In fact, Alaris didn't know who actually considered themselves the commander of the deities. Alaris could barely get her mortal allies to listen to her.  
  
She rose to her feet, setting the cloth aside, and reaching for the blankets tucked around Malach's hips. He still burned with fever.  
  
“Very well,” Alaris said. “If you would help me turn him to his front before you go, I would appreciate it.” His back needed more work than any other injured part of him. It would also need to 'breathe' so to speak.  
  
Heimdal nodded. “Understood.”  
  
It was delicate work, made all the more complicated by the way Malach thrashed and murmured in his sleep. Heimdal, however, laid a palm on the man's forehead, whispered something in that infernal Kurai language, and Malach calmed.  
  
Seeing Malach's back again made Alaris' insides quail. It was a horrific mass of burn marks, lesions, and dead skin. The blood had stained the sheets and she knew they would have to be changed soon, if only to prevent infection from setting in. A round of healing had done him a world of good but it was not enough.  
  
“Why?” she asked, the query coming out before she could stop herself. There hadn't been time, earlier, to ask and now the urge to know overwhelmed her.  
  
Heimdal's mouth flattened with disgust. “It was his punishment for violating the traditions of the Kurai.”  
  
She sat on the edge of the bed again, careful not to jostle him too much. “What was on his back?”  
  
“The Kurai are descended from a race of beings that no longer exist on Lieve. Many still retain echoes from that bloodline.”  
  
Alaris was grateful that she had never been weak in the stomach. “Echoes?”  
  
“The Maris were winged beings, vaguely reptilian, but sharing a common ancestry with humans as well.”  
  
It explained much. Wings. Asherah, help her. What would it be like to have wings? How long ago had the Maris existed for their descendents to now be flightless?  
  
She felt she had heard of them before, in fairytales and storybooks. They must have been called by another name. Perhaps Hephaestion would know more. Heimdal didn't look interested in indulging her curiosity.  
  
“I see.”  
  
“You don't. Not yet.” Heimdal sighed, and pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. “I haven't the time to explain. Perhaps when I return.”  
  
“I'll hold you to that.”  
  
“I'm sure you will.”  
  
A blip of magic and Heimdal disappeared, leaving the room feeling emptier than before. Heimdal had more of a presence than some of the others, Alaris noticed. Hephaestion filled the room with an undercurrent of magic. Heimdal seemed to be all force and substance. Erebus, what few times Alaris had met the deity, was a shadow in the corner, stealthy and observant. Asclepius was a bubbly burst of cheer, like rays of the sun through cloud cover.  
  
Iblion didn't have much of a presence, come to think of it. Alaris attributed that to the fact he was constantly in the mortal realm. Perhaps his perpetual presence was dampening his link to the immortal world? This would be an avenue worth pursuing. There was so much Alaris didn't know and it was hard to make decisions without answers.  
  
Frowning, she returned her attention to Malach. The shape of the wound on his back made sense now. If he'd had vestigial scales where wings had been, they would have spread across his shoulderblades and down his spine. Thus, the burns.  
  
Horrible.  
  
Shaking her head, Alaris dug into herself. She had enough reserves for another healing session, if only to make him more comfortable. Heimdal was gone and Malach had started murmuring again, though muffled now with his face half-pressed into the pillow.  
  
It really was too much like Alyssa.  
  
Alaris swallowed thickly.  
  
She had done well not to think of her adoptive sister all this time. But of course Malach's condition would bring back the memories.  
  
Alyssa had never been tortured like this. She had never been beaten and branded and burned, but there were still similarities.  
  
Younger, she had been vibrant and full of life. She loved to garden, loved to be in the sun, and her skin was always a dark golden-brown as a result of it. She danced in the rain without an umbrella, and danced in the snow without gloves or hat.  
  
They intended to start their training as priests of Hephaestion together. Alyssa didn't know her birthday because no one knew when or where she had been born. She'd been found on the steps of the temple one rainy morning, an abandoned, crying baby.  
  
The other priestesses suspected that she was closest to Alaris in age so they shared Alaris' birthday because it was easier. They laughed and played and dreamed together.  
  
One day, Alyssa started coughing. At first, they all thought it was a summer chill, nothing unusual. Every summer, they'd come down with a brief sickness, coughing and body chills and leaking noses. It would pass within a week and they'd be fine. Most of the time, they wouldn't even bother with medicines or herbs.  
  
The cough didn't go away. Instead, it worsened. Alyssa would double over, unable to breathe, and when the coughs came blood. Her appetite lessened. She grew pale and weak. She couldn't keep anything down. She couldn't get out of bed.  
  
Dark circles lined her eyes. Her skin seemed to draw tight against her frame. She lost her energy, her vitality, and could only offer weak smiles.  
  
She became bedridden.  
  
Alaris spent hours by her side, reading books, encouraging her to eat, feeding her herb after herb, all in a vain hope to cure whatever was killing her from the inside out. The priestesses had no idea. The doctors were stumped. No one knew enough about Alyssa's origins to guess if it was something of her heritage.  
  
She was dying and nothing could save her.  
  
It wasn't fair, Alaris had thought back then. Alyssa was young and vibrant. She deserved much more than a life spent wasting away in a bed.  
  
Alyssa died that winter, a week before the solstice. Alaris had been sitting at her side, counting her ragged breaths, the stench of illness thick in the room, despite the potpourri over the fireplace. She felt Alyssa's hand, so thin and frail, go limp in hers.  
  
Alaris remembered wanting to cry but feeling all dried up inside, as though she didn't have any more tears. The grief throbbed thickly in her chest and got stuck.  
  
It was days later, after the funeral, that Alaris first heard Hephaestion's voice. She'd thought herself going crazy, that her grief had made her snap. And then, she found herself angry.  
  
“Why now?” Alaris had demanded, her hands forming fists, her fury like a sharp crackle of energy around her body. “Why not sooner? Why not before...” She couldn't complete the question. It felt too much like her earlier battle with helplessness.  
  
Hephaesation hadn't any answers for her. He wasn't privy to Lord Aesir's plans any more than Alaris was.  
  
It made her angry, but there was nothing she could do about it. Nothing but feel a bit like some puppet, dancing to someone else's strings. She should have ignored Hephaestion and the war on principle alone, but Alaris hadn't.  
  
Misery beget misery. Her pretending ignorance didn't help anyone, least of all herself.  
  
The bedroom door clicked open. Alaris turned her head, unsurprised to find Sleet's mother creeping inside, carefully balancing a tray of food.  
  
“You missed dinner,” she said by way of explanation. “I brought something up that I hope will whet your appetite.”  
  
She set the tray down on a nightstand and though it didn't give off the steam of recently cooked, the food looked palatable enough. The cup of water was the most enticing of the lot. Alaris hadn't realized how thirsty she'd gotten in her self-enforced solitude, playing nursemaid to a burnt and broken stranger.  
  
“Thank you,” Alaris said, trying and failing at a smile. She was too tired for cheer.  
  
“My pleasure.” Sleet's mother looked at Malach, her expression filling with sympathy. “Is he getting better?”  
  
“By degrees.” Alaris dropped her damp, bloody cloth into the mud-stained water and appraised the meal. Breads. Cheeses. A few chunks of meat. “I suspect it'll be days before he regains consciousness.”  
  
Sleet's mother clucked her tongue. “I'll bring up some fresh sheets. These will need to be changed. And how are you?”  
  
Awkward. Alaris couldn't say that, however. Sleet's mother might take offense. And she was a kind woman, generous. Alaris didn't want to alienate her. It was still hard to believe that a brat like Sleet came from parents like these.  
  
“I could use some rest but I can wait,” Alaris replied and took a hunk of bread, biting into it with relish. Her stomach growled at her.  
  
“Is he stable?”  
  
“He's not going to die if that's what you're asking.”  
  
Sleet's mother lifted her eyebrows. “Yes. But more importantly, will he be all right on his own for a few hours?”  
  
Alaris grabbed the cup of water and sat down, this time choosing one of the chairs instead of perching on the side of the bed. “Theoretically.” She swallowed a bite and washed it down with water. “I'd like to watch him a while longer to be safe.”  
  
Sleet's mother looked contemplative, her eyes seemingly drawn like magnets to the ruin of Malach's back.  
  
“There is also a risk that he'll awaken in a blind fury,” Alaris added, because she could sense the wheedle that seemed to be building. Mrs. Upton was a nurturer. “And whether he'll lash out with his magic or his nascent telepathy, I don't know.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
Wisely, Mrs. Upton retreated a pace, some of the color fading from her cheeks. “But if he rests a bit longer, that becomes less of a concern?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Then I will watch over him so that you can rest.”  
  
Alaris managed a faint smile. “I would appreciate it. Thank you.” Of her allies, she could only trust Tungsten to properly look after Malach. Mrs. Upton was the best option.  
  
“It is no trouble, dear.” Mrs. Upton smiled and patted her on the shoulder, positively radiating maternal warmth. “This house has been quiet since Stewart left. It's nice to have a little excitement every once in a while.”  
  
She bit back a wince. Excitement wasn't exactly what Alaris would call it.  
  
“Anyway,” Mrs. Upton continued with a bright tone. “Let me bring you some clean towels and fresh water.”  
  
She swept the bowl from the nightstand, gathering up the dirtied cloths as well. “I'll be back in a moment.”  
  
Mrs. Upton didn't wait for Alaris to respond, leaving the room in much the same manner as she had entered in, like a whirlwind of activity. She would return shortly no doubt. Alaris tried not to sigh unenthusiastically.  
  
If this was what she was missing in having parents, she didn't feel so sorry for herself.  
  
Malach muttered something, muffled against the pillow, and Alaris reached out on automatic, gently laying her hand on the back of his head. She drew from deep within herself, tapping the coil of magic that settled throughout her body like an inner stream.  
  
Directing it toward Malach, she felt it sift out through her fingers, a soft tingling that grew stronger the more she allowed it to emerge. The fatigue that came with it always seemed to start in her feet, weirdly enough. Her legs felt heavy, and her arms. Her eyelids drooped.  
  
Malach settled into sleep. Alaris ceased her healing energy, drawing in a long, steadying breath. Her fingers shook as she withdrew her hand. Damn. She could really use some rest, but food would have to do for now. If Hephaestion were here, he could at least give her a boost.  
  
Still... Malach's injuries did look better. The reddened, raised edges had now shrunk inward. The bubbles of third-degree burns had lessened to only second-degree. By tomorrow and another application of healing, he would only be uncomfortable. He might even regain consciousness.  
  
Whether or not that was a good thing remained to be seen.  
  
“Here you go,” Mrs. Upton said, the door swinging open in time with her words, announcing her presence brightly. “I found a bottle or two of salve that should prove useful as well.”  
  
Alaris redirected her attention. “Salve?”  
  
Sleet's mother smiled. “It's a secret recipe. I had three boys who always got themselves into trouble and no small amount of injuries. This is a catch-all remedy. I slathered it on insect bites, cuts, bruises, and yes, burns.”  
  
Alaris took one of the containers, peeling back the lid and sniffing the contents. It smelled most strongly of aloe, with hints of turmeric and juniper. An odd mixture but not unappealing.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“I just hope it helps.” Mrs. Upton gave Malach another sympathetic look. “Raven – which is a strange name, I might add – seemed in fine spirits.”  
  
“No stranger than Sleet,” Alaris countered with a smile of her own. “And by fine spirits you probably mean he had a sour mood and a response a few shades shy of polite. I'll check on him later.”  
  
Mrs. Upton chuckled, her eyes sparkling with humor. “You would be right. Is there anything else I can get you?”  
  
Alaris shook her head. “No. You've been more than helpful. Thank you again.”  
  
“You're welcome, dear.”  
  
Mrs. Upton excused herself, leaving Alaris to the silence of the room. At least she had her books to entertain herself. And the salve.  
  
Rolling up her sleeves, Alaris tended to Malach's back, gently wiping it down first with the clean rags Mrs. Upton had brought, and then dabbing away the damp water. She scooped out some of the salve, rubbing it between her fingers. It was a bit greasy, but not too sticky as to aggravate the wounds. Good enough.  
  
Alaris applied it gently to Malach's back and then wiped her fingers clean. Malach settled, tension bleeding out of his frame, his body easing into true sleep rather than the unconscious sprawl of an injured man. All very good signs.  
  
Alaris didn't dare sleep yet, but she didn't need a second-by-second vigil either. She pulled out her saddlebags, rifling through the few books that had survived the journey so far, pulling out a historical tome that smelled of age and must. Perhaps in here would be the answers to her many, many questions. It was worth a try.  
  
She settled into a chair, pulled the book into her lap, and dragged the tray of food closer. It would be the most rest she'd managed since they fled Reiran.  
  
Someone knocked on the door.  
  
The urge to growl aloud nearly consumed her. “Come in.”  
  
The door cracked open, with obvious hesitancy, and Tungsten poked his head inside. “Alaris-san, I think we have a problem.”  
  
Of course they did. She gestured him inside, closing her book with a sharp snap.  
  
“What kind of problem?”  
  
Tungsten ducked his head, gaze wandering to Malach where he blanched visibly before jerking his eyes back toward her. “It's Beryl-san.”  
  
If it wasn't one thief, it was the other.  
  
“What's he done?”  
  
“Nothing. At least, I don't think he has.” Tungsten swept a hand over his head, looking for all the world like a child tattling to his parents. “But he was acting strangely when I brought him something to eat.”  
  
Alaris frowned. “Strange, how?”  
  
Tungsten fidgeted. “I sensed magic in the room. Beryl-san acted as though nothing was wrong, but he was pale and skittish. And I know I've felt that magic before.”  
  
Alaris didn't need more than one guess. “Frost.”  
  
“Probably. And Balaam, too.”  
  
Damn it. This was just what they needed. “Do you think they're working together?”  
  
Tungsten's gaze wandered away, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation. “I think that Beryl-san was telling the truth about wanting to find Frost. And I can't see Frost needing to spy on us. It's not like it's hard to find us.”  
  
Hmm. He had a point.  
  
Alaris frowned, eyebrows drawing down in thought. If Frost had been here to visit Beryl, no doubt he would have popped in to see Sleet, too. Though getting an answer or truth out of either thief was an exercise in futility.  
  
Why didn’t Frost just attack them? Alaris had sensed nothing. Was it because Hephaestion was absent from her? Was his presence what helped her identify other deities and animus? What exactly did Frost want?  
  
“Where was Sleet?”  
  
“Beryl-san said that he went out to the barn.”  
  
Alaris breathed out hard. Sleet was alone, ripe for the taking, but if there had been a battle, surely Alaris would have felt such a large outpouring of magic. The barn would have been decimated if Sleet and Erebus had been killed. Yet, Frost hadn't seriously attempted to kill Sleet.  
  
Balaam, yes. Frost, no.  
  
It was a very thin line.  
  
She rested her head against her knuckle, staring off into space. She didn't dare confront Beryl about it. He would deny it, and Tungsten didn't have any real proof, other than a sensitivity to magic. Though how he sensed it when Alaris didn't was a mystery. Unless her current exhaustion had something to do with it.  
  
“Alaris-san?”  
  
“We'll keep an eye on him,” she said, shifting her attention back to Tungsten. “For now, it's all we can do.”  
  
“I suppose you're right.” Tungsten still look bothered. “How is Malach-san?”  
  
“He'll live.” Alaris glanced at the Kurai warrior, but Malach hadn't so much as twitched. She needed to shift him onto his back at some point. “Whether he'll be sane is another matter entirely.”  
  
Tungsten blinked. “Sane?”  
  
“I'm not a mind-walker. Have never been nor met one. Trauma of that magnitude...” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug and rubbed her palms across her eyes. “I don't know.”  
  
“You need some rest, Alaris-san.”  
  
She barked out a laugh, though it carried little amusement. “I'll get right on that.”  
  
A hand settled on her shoulder and Alaris startled. She hadn't even heard Tungsten move across the floor. “I mean it,” he said, tone pouring sympathy. “I can watch over Malach-san for a little while.”  
  
Alaris managed a smile, reaching up and laying her hand over his. “Thank you. I appreciate it. And perhaps I'll take you up on that offer in a few hours.”  
  
He gave her a look, mouth opening to protest.  
  
“I still don't like the look of those burns,” Alaris hastily said. “But once he's more stable, I can relax.” She squeezed Tungsten's hand reassuringly.  
  
“All right.” He relaxed, withdrawing his hand and taking away the comfortable vibrations of his own magic. “But I'll hold you to that.”  
  
“I'm sure you will. Get some rest of your own, Tungsten. And don't worry about Beryl. We'll figure something out.”  
  
Alaris wasn't sure why, but her half-hearted reassurance made him light up. He grinned at her, eyes brightening.  
  
“Of course we will. Good night, Alaris.”  
  
“Good night.”  
  
He left her alone, closing the door with a quiet click behind him. Strange how the room had once felt so echoing, and now it didn't anymore.  
  
Alaris checked Malach one more time, but the Kurai warrior was deeply asleep. She settled back in her chair with her book in her lap and the tray of food within reach. It wouldn't be the same as sleeping, but it would be relaxing. That would have to do for now.  
  
She would worry about Beryl and Frost and Balaam later.  
  


  
***


	33. Interlude: Malach (Part One)

Reiran was a collapsed ruin. The Kurai were forced to sleep outside, under the stars, with little shelter and fewer supplies. Their population had been decimated by the earthquake. Many had been injured. Families were broken. Despair hung like a heavy fog over their makeshift encampment.  
  
And yet, Dror had managed to find the time and resources to construct something like a prison for Malach.  
  
He had separated Malach from the others. Chains wrapped around his wrists and ankles, attached to thick posts driven deep into the ground. They were wholly unnecessary as Malach hadn't made any attempts to flee, but he suspected Dror delighted in seeing Malach burdened by them. As much as he'd delighted of stripping Malach of his weaponry, his belongings, his overcoat and his boots.  
  
Yes, his boots.  
  
From his prison, Malach could make out the dimmest flickers of firelight from the camp. He was so far he couldn't even hear the murmur of voices, the pained groans, the fearful conversations. It also meant that no one could see him, and he couldn't see the fear in their eyes. It was a small favor.  
  
He had guards as a matter of course. Two warriors standing back to back, one watching him with a sneer and the other watching the land around them. Perhaps they expected demons to swoop out of the night to rescue Malach.  
  
They had seen what Malach was capable of, how the very land responded to his beck and call, yet not a one of them had asked why he hadn't rescued himself yet. These chains were not what kept him here.  
  
“You are not allowed here.”  
  
Malach jerked at the sound of the warrior's voice, head lifting. His guard was speaking to someone, but he couldn't see them beyond the warrior's bulk.  
  
“I have been given permission by the chieftain,” another voice answered and Malach's heart clenched into a tiny ball. This voice he knew.  
  
His head dropped, shame twisting and coiling inside of him.  
  
“Let her pass, Aryen,” said Malach's other guard with an exasperated exhale. His stares had been full of caution and fear, but unlike Aryen, there had not been cruelty in his gaze.  
  
Aryen had lost someone in the earthquake. Aryen longed for someone to blame. Malach knew he had all too quickly become the face of their despair.  
  
Aryen made a disgusted noise, spear thumping the ground, but he did move aside. “Five minutes,” he grunted. “Nothing more. And keep your distance.”  
  
“Of course. Thank you.”  
  
Malach heard the two warriors move aside, the soft patter of footsteps over crumbling rock as their owner approached. He didn't dare lift his head or his eyes. Earlier, desperation had borne a certain element of ignorance. There was no hiding from the questions now.  
  
“Malach?”  
  
His head hung lower. Heimdal chastised him in the back of his mind, but Malach softly built up a wall between them, more a mesh web than the barrier of bricks from before, but it served its purpose. It was a request for privacy and with a soft sigh of his own, Heimdal relented.  
  
“Beloved, look at me.”  
  
It took more effort than it should have for him to lift his eyes and see Isolde looking at him, her expression pinched with worry and fear and exhaustion. Her face was still streaked with soot on the edges, though she'd made some attempt to wipe away the grime. She sat in front of him, knees folded beneath her, hands twisted in the pleats of her robe, but expression defiant.  
  
“What would you have me say?” Malach asked, and grimaced as his voice came out raspy and cracked, like an old man revived from the chilling illness.  
  
Isolde shook her head. “I do not want an apology. I knew when I wedded you that something was different. That you were different.”  
  
His hands clenched into fists. “I am cursed.”  
  
“You are blessed.” Isolde inched closer, though her eyes darted behind her, checking the position of his guards. At present, they were not looking. “You have been given a gift. And if even half of what those strangers claimed are true, you will be a hero.”  
  
“Dror does not see it that way.”  
  
“Dror is a fool.” Isolde lowered her voice. “We, the Kurai, have long been fools, clinging to out-dated traditions and beliefs. And your family has suffered the most because of them.”  
  
Malach swallowed over a lump in his throat. “You say that, but I can see the fear in your eyes. You see a stranger in me and I cannot blame you.”  
  
Isolde shook her head, glancing over her shoulder and finding that the guards weren't paying them any attention. She reached out, laying her hand over his. “I don't fear you, Malach. I fear for you. Dror would see you exiled, if not executed.”  
  
Her hand was warm over his. Her fingers were worn and calloused, bandaged in a few places where they'd been torn by the jagged rocks. Malach looked down at her hand over his and tried not to drown in relief.  
  
He had wedded Isolde because she was the only one who had ever seen him for himself and not the shadow of his exiled mother or his crazed uncle. She loved him despite the rumors and the casual shunning. She consented to have a child with him and thank Asherah's mercy that Amyrei had yet to display any hint of Malach's abilities. He prayed every day that they would never show themselves.  
  
“Would you tell me?” Isolde asked, her voice so soft Malach wondered if he imagined the question. “How you can move the earth and the stranger who helped you?”  
  
Malach inhaled and exhaled, laying his other hand over Isolde's, hearing the light clatter-clank of his chains. “I wouldn't know where to begin. You know, already, of the reasons my mother was exiled. The talk of dark things, dark abilities.” He winced, shoulders sinking. “I carry the same curse.”  
  
Isolde's fingers tightened over his, but she didn't pull away. That, in itself, was encouragement enough.  
  
“I am a mind-walker,” Malach admitted, and felt the burden of a secret lifting from his shoulders, from his insides. Isolde might walk away from him after this, but he will have given her the truth. At least he could give her that much before his punishment. “Like my mother and grandfather and great-grandfather before me.”  
  
“But it is not the reason you can move the earth.”  
  
“No.” He exhaled, head lowering, searching for an explanation when he didn't know it fully himself. “I am bonded to Heimdal, who we once worshiped as Fenrir. His abilities are mine. I can move the earth, change it, manipulate it, see through it.”  
  
“Then you can escape.”  
  
His gaze snapped upward, shock vibrating through him. “Escape?” Malach whispered, forcing himself to regain a composure that had failed him.  
  
Isolde leaned closer, her words coming out faster, more urgent. “Yes, escape. Get away from here before Dror kills you.”  
  
“I cannot do that.” Malach shook his head, mouth moving, but words slow to come. “I broke our laws, Isolde. I have lied to you, to our people, for years. I am _cursed_.”  
  
“No.” Isolde's tone was fierce, her grip on his hands unrelenting, her eyes flashing. “You are my husband and father to our daughter. I will not stand by and watch as Dror uses his power to punish you for something undeserving of punishment. You must escape, Malach.”  
  
He never would have expected to hear her ask such of a thing of him.  
  
“I cannot flee into the night like a coward,” Malach argued, shaking his head firmly. “I have to face him, explain myself. My honor--”  
  
“Means nothing to Dror.” Isolde's voice cracked and she quickly lowered it, visibly swallowing. “He would kill you without looking back. You cannot ask me to watch such a thing. There is no honor in death, Malach.”  
  
“Isolde--”  
  
“Time's up!”  
  
They jerked apart as though struck, Malach's chains rattling. Aryen stalked toward them, his face twisted with disgust.  
  
“Visiting hours are over,” Aryen said.  
  
Isolde opened her mouth as though to protest and promptly closed it again. She nodded and rose to her feet, dusting off her skirt. “I understand.” Her gaze shifted to Malach, conveying without words what she had already been trying to say.  
  
 _I still and will always love you_ , he heard.  
  
Isolde tipped her head in a silent farewell and turned away. Malach caught himself from reaching for her, wanting to draw her back, into his arms. He could feel the blunt heat of Aryen's glare, the warning in the white-knuckled grip on his spear.  
  
Nothing hurt so much as having to watch his wife walk away. It felt as though something had reached down and squeezed his heart.  
  
“The chieftain has called a council,” Aryen said.  
  
Malach shifted his attention to the warrior.  
  
“First thing in the morning,” Aryen continued with a sneer. “They'll decide your fate then.”  
  
“Enough council members survived?”  
  
“Unfortunately for you.” Aryen made a noise of disgust, whirling on a heel. “And I am pleased to say that none of them are feeling merciful.”  
  
Malach didn't respond. There was nothing to say.  
  
He sat back against the rock enclosing his mini-prison, drawing up his legs and resting his arms across his knees. He felt the tug of the chains around his ankles, reminding him of the weight of his decision.  
  
Which would be worse? Execution or exile?  
  
 _Isolde is right, pup._  
  
Malach closed his eyes and leaned his head back. The last thing he wanted was to respond aloud, inspire Aryen's further ire. The warrior might take it upon himself to be entertained with a physical punishment.  
  
 _'I can't flee into the night like a coward. I can't leave Isolde and Amyrei alone to deal with the fall out. I can't abandon my people.'  
  
Whether or not you leave will not change the fact that they seek to punish you for the crime of being born._  
  
He sucked in a careful breath, trying not to outwardly flinch. _'My mother did not run._ '  
  
Heimdal's tones softened. _Tehila was not given the chance_. He paused and gave the indication of someone modulating their breathing. _She was exiled, pup. There is good chance you may find her again._  
  
Malach's hands clenched and unclenched. He remembered the look in his mother's eyes as she was driven out of Reiran. He remembered the blood running down her face, the fear of their people, the unrelenting command in Chieftain Adlai's voice.  
  
He remembered his father's hands on his shoulders, gripping tightly, though whether to keep Malach from running to his mother, or to stop himself from doing something drastic, Malach didn't know.  
  
' _That may be so_ ,' Malach replied with a resigned exhalation. ' _But if I flee into the night, my punishment will be given to Isolde. And I am not that coward.'_  
  
He felt Heimdal's startled reaction, the disgust surging from his animus. _Have the Kurai stooped so low? This was never the way!_  
  
' _Much has changed_.' Malach peeled open his eyes, tilting his head back to look at the skies above, not that he could see the stars. A thick layer of clouds had obscured them. It would rain tonight.  
  
Warmth wrapped around Malach from head to toe, though it had no exterior source. He defined it as the equivalent of a mental hug.  
  
 _Very well_ , Heimdal said with disappointed reluctance. _I will convince you to flee no more. I will be present during the council. I will stand by your punishment. But do not ask me to witness your execution._  
  
' _I wouldn't_.' Malach leaned back against the rock, attempting to get comfortable in a situation that denied comfort. _'Death would be too easy, too forgiving. Dror would never allow that. He will humiliate me, cause me pain, but he will not grant me the mercy of death.'_  
  
Silence stretched long and loud between them.  
  
 _Rest now,_ Heimdal finally said. _You will need your strength for the morning._  
  
Rest? How could he do such a thing with the anxiety squeezing his innards and causing his heart to thump twice the usual rate.  
  
 _Rest_ , Heimdal repeated, more insistent, and only then did Malach feel the fatigue tugging at him. His limbs were heavy, his breathing slowed. His eyes slid shut, body relaxing against the rock.  
  
 _Sleep_ , Heimdal whispered.  
  
A spell, Malach realized drowsily, too exhausted to dredge up a proper anger, but it simmered beneath the surface. It would give him strength come morning.  
  
Heimdal murmured again, but the words were lost to the echoes.  
  
Malach slept.  
  


  
o0o0o

  
  
  
He awoke to a crisp, damp dawn, the sun rising in the distance, attempting to peek through the beaded cloud cover. His own breath came in slow puffs of grey and though he should have felt chilled, he was comforted by an odd warmth. More magic, he supposed.  
  
Anger reminded itself and Malach straightened, a frown on his lips. ' _Heimdal_.'  
  
 _It was necessary_ , his animus replied without a hint of chagrin. _I will not apologize_.  
  
Lips forming a thin line, Malach refrained from responding. It would be pointless to argue. Heimdal was obviously more skilled in the use of magic and subterfuge than he.  
  
Malach rubbed the sleep from his eyes, wrist chains making a noisy clank in the early hours. His guards had changed during the night, to older warriors who regarded him with more suspicion than the previous two. Their disdain for him was like a wash of icy bath water.  
  
Malach rose to his feet, attempting to ignore the clank and rattle of the chains, and stretched out limbs that had cramped during the night. He turned his back on the guards, watching instead the sun's slow rise over Reiran, early rays illuminating the crumpled rock wall.  
  
' _Alaris and her friends, have they gone?'  
  
Yes, I escorted them out myself._  
  
Malach rubbed his fingers over his wrists, trying to soothe the irritated skin beneath the manacles. He wondered how long Dror would make him wait.  
  
' _I will most certainly be exiled if Dror does not opt for execution,_ ' Malach said after a soft, steadying inhalation. ' _If I am at all useful in the end, I will help them_.'  
  
Heimdal stirred in his mind, giving the impression of one performing a stretch. _You are certain, pup?_  
  
He lowered his head, shoulders sinking under the weight of the destiny Asherah had given him. ' _Yes. If only to protect Isolde and Amyrei._ '  
  
The crackle of booted feet over rough-hewn stone was Malach's first indication that someone had approached. He turned, unsurprised to find Dror, the mark of a new chieftain upon his brow. He was flanked by half a dozen Kurai warriors. Malach recognized their faces. They were the ones tasked with protecting the chieftain. Now, they were to defend Dror.  
  
“Sleep well?” Dror asked in a tone better described as a grunt.  
  
“How is Isolde?” Malach replied, preferring to ignore Dror's blatant hostility. He had been shunned by his people, but he was not ashamed. At least, not in the way they expected him to be.  
  
“She is the least of your concerns right now.” Dror tilted his head and two of the guards peeled away from his group, approaching Malach. “The council has been called. Your fate will be decided today.”  
  
Malach remained still as they unhitched his chains, clasping his wrists behind his back and hobbling his ankles as well. “You didn't waste any time.”  
  
“There are many Kurai who are afraid right now, Malach.” Dror stepped closer, voice dropping in volume. “Afraid of you. Am I so wrong to offer them a measure of comfort?”  
  
“If your intentions were truly so honest, then I wouldn't protest.” Malach met his uncle's gaze, volumes of past ills passing between them. “How long, Uncle, have you been waiting for this opportunity?”  
  
Dror snorted. “Opportunity? We all knew it was only a matter of time until you proved to be your mother's son.”  
  
A flush of heat worked its way through Malach's insides, a heat born of anger and offense, but he swallowed it down. He had spent years hearing such taunts in some form or another. He had learned not to react to them and he refused to surrender that effort now. Dror goaded him a-purpose.  
  
He wanted any reason for Malach to prove himself the danger everyone expected him to be.  
  
He tilted his chin, head held proudly. “I am Tehila's son. That fact has never been in question.”  
  
Dror gave him a long look before whirling on a heel, gesturing sharply. “Bring the prisoner,” he said. “The council does not want to be kept waiting.”  
  
Of course they didn't.  
  
Malach kept his reply to himself, following along as he was surrounded on all sides by Kurai warriors. They did their best to pretend he did not exist and Malach returned that courtesy by ignoring them. He could name each of them, point out their families, recall times they had sat laughing around a campfire.  
  
All of that meant nothing right now. Between this moment and his judgment, Malach did not exist to anyone but the chieftain and the council.  
  
Of course, that didn't stop his kinsmen from staring. Malach was led through the center of camp like some parade of shame, the Kurai early to rise as a whole, watching in the dim hours of the morning as Malach trudged to his doom. He stared straight ahead, catching eyes with no one, but feeling the itch of their stares across his back.  
  
At the base of Reiran, surrounded by collapsed rock and signs of destruction, the council waited. Five men and women were the oldest and wisest of the Kurai. Malach knew them as well. Verily was even related to him by some convoluted pathway of genetics.  
  
With Reiran at their back, they gave off an aura of intimidation. Malach would face them, with his watching kinsmen at his own back, staring at the weight of their accusations. He would see his crumpled home, the jagged stone, the scent of blood and rot wafting out from Reiran's ruined interior. Dror certainly had a flair for the dramatic as he was the one to have chosen the site since their usual meeting room was buried under rubble.  
  
Everyone stood. There was nowhere to sit save for the rocky ground and pride demanded something more dignified.  
  
“Malach Nahlson,” Dror said, standing in the midst of the council, who looked as one at Malach, ringed by the Kurai warriors, a crowd slowly gathering behind them. “You have been called here to determine your guilt or innocence in consorting with dark magics.”  
  
“You are aware of the Kurai law?” Guntere asked, the eldest member of the council, his face lined with wrinkles and back stooped with age.  
  
Malach lifted his head. “I am.”  
  
“You understand the consequences of disobeying those laws?” Carey asked, the youngest member, her hair salt and pepper gray, but her eyes clear.  
  
“I do.”  
  
Dror's eyes narrowed, but gave no other indication of his anger. “Then how do you plead?”  
  
Malach breathed in and out. The chains felt heavy, dragging his wrists down. His ankles itched from the shackles hobbling them. The air was cold, exhalations emerging in grey wisps. The sun was rising, brightening the dull sky.  
  
His head dipped. “Guilty.”  
  
There was no denying his actions or Heimdal's presence in the back of his mind. There was no denying his abilities, whether in the noisy press of so many internal voices or his affinity with the earth. That it hadn't been choice wasn't part of the proceedings.  
  
The Kurai would never admit that such things were a curse. That they were a product of birth and not choice. They would not admit to that sort of contagion in their kin. It was why all offenders had been killed or cast aside, with hopes to eradicate all traces of dark magics.  
  
It wasn't just Malach's family, his bloodline. He would die, or be driven away, and Amyrei might not be cursed, but another family would rise, someone, somewhere. A spontaneous showing of talent, where a child would see ghosts and speak to things that weren't there, and the cycle would begin all over again. Secrets and lies and pain and betrayal.  
  
The Kurai as a whole were cursed.  
  
“Then we won't have to waste time with pointless arguing,” said Dror. “Do you have any defense for yourself?”  
  
Defense? Malach internally snorted.  
  
“None that you would hear,” he replied, shifting his weight, hearing the clank-clank of the heavy chains as they dragged him down, down toward the ground.  
  
This whole affair dragged at him. It felt like it wasn't him, wasn't really his life. That it was a terrible nightmare he'd been trapped in and no one cared enough to wake him up.  
  
The council murmured amongst themselves.  
  
“No defense and a confession of guilt,” Dror announced, raising his hands for silence. The crowd had already started with rumors, whispering them back and forth to each other. “The laws of the Kurai in this matter are clear. For the crime he has committed, the penalty has always been death.”  
  
Malach startled. “How is that so? Those few before me had been given exile. That has always been the standard punishment.”  
  
Dror glared. “These circumstances are different. They were merely outed as the demon-spawn they were. Your actions have led to the destruction of our city along with the deaths and suffering of our kin.”  
  
Malach felt the blood drain from his face. “You blame me for the quake?” he demanded, though his voice lacked force.  
  
He knew that his uncle held little love for him, but to go this far? This went beyond mere dislike and hatred. This was more than personal.  
  
He was forever paying for the sins of his father.  
  
“Do you expect us to believe it a coincidence? That our land rejects us within the same day that you reveal yourself for the traitor you are?”  
  
It was hard to breathe and Malach knew the weather had nothing to do with it. He could feel the heavy stares of his fellow kinsmen. He felt cold in his extremities, though his innards burned with heat.  
  
The air snapped as Heimdal crackled into existence beside him, prompting startled cries from many in the audience. Anger radiated from the demi-deity, power wafting from him in waves.  
  
“Superstitious fools,” Heimdal declared, his face twisted with disgust. “You are so blinded by your traditions and your superstitions that you fail to see the natural order of the land. This quake was not of supernatural origin! It was an inevitable release of the land's fury.”  
  
“Silence!” Dror pushed himself to his feet, one hand slicing through the air. “You have no stake here, no right to speak.”  
  
Heimdal's face flushed with anger and beneath them, Malach felt the earth give a little tremble. The other Kurai must have felt it, too. A murmur of fear rippled through the gathered spectators.  
  
Malach breathed in and out, trying to calm himself and force calm through the connection he shared with his animus. “Heimdal,” he murmured. “Please.”  
  
Frustration ate into Heimdal's composure as he visibly pinched his lips together and lapsed into silence. His words would not help them.  
  
“I did what I had to do,” Malach said, returning his attention to Dror and the accumulated council members. “I acknowledged Heimdal to save my kin, my people. I will never regret that.”  
  
Dror twitched, expression twisted with disgust. “Then you have no remorse for your actions?”  
  
This and that were not precisely the same, but Malach couldn't find the energy to protest. It would go unheard. Dror had made up his mind. He would rather save his breath.  
  
Silence was his only option.  
  
“Dror,” began one of the council members, Iliya. “There is more. You must tell the accused our findings.”  
  
More?  
  
Malach's brow furrowed. What could Iliya mean?  
  
“I am aware of that,” Dror said, his words stiff but carefully respectful. Chieftain he might be, but even he could not disregard the council. “Malach Nahlson, the customary punishment for your crime is death. But several of our kin have interceded on your behalf, arguing for a lesser penalty, one that gives an opportunity for redemption.”  
  
Confusion replaced the building anger. Malach blinked rapidly, his gaze darting to the gathered kinsmen. Who would speak for him? His father was dead; he had no siblings. Isolde, as his wife, was ineligible to intercede. It was the same for Amyrei, who was also too young to take place in this sort of disciplinary affair.  
  
“Would those who are willing to speak on the accused's behalf please identify themselves?” Dror asked, raising his voice to be heard above the crowd.  
  
Four men and women emerged. The Kurai were not so populous that Malach didn't recognize them.  
  
“My son was one of those trapped by debris,” said Laret, an older woman with the white of age streaking her dark hair. “If not for Malach, he might not have survived the night. For his assistance, I request lenience.”  
  
Beside her was Erich, which surprised Malach. He had failed to save Suna, and she had died protecting Amyrei. Erich was one of the last Malach would have expected to speak for him.  
  
“I worked side by side with Malach as he moved stone, shifted earth, and never once rested, all in great effort to rescue our brethren. For his tenacity, I ask for mercy.”  
  
Two more spoke, echoing Erich and Laret. Two more Kurai grateful for Malach's assistance, their expressions reflecting unease but not outright hatred.  
  
It left Malach speechless, unable to form his own response, though gratitude was on the tip of his tongue. These four men and women had saved his life. No matter what Dror and the council decided, execution was off the table. Too many had spoken in Malach's defense.  
  
Dror stepped forward again, raising his hands to summon silence from their people. “Given their intercession, we cannot consider execution.” Each word was bitten out, edged with frustration. “Yet, punishment must be had.”  
  
He turned his head, focusing his full gaze on Malach, eyes burning with a hatred that Malach would never understood.  
  
“Malach Nahlson, having been accused of treachery and deceit, you will be branded and outcast from the Kurai,” Dror declared, words echoing over the hushed crowd. “You will be stripped of all titles, all marks, taking nothing with you into exile but your life.”  
  
His shoulders sank. There was a lump in his throat that refused to be dislodged no matter how much he swallowed.  
  
Dror tilted his chin. “Do you contest our judgment?”  
  
 _Pup_ , Heimdal urged, his presence like a sea of support in the back of Malach's mind. _You do not deserve punishment of any kind.  
  
'It is almost a mercy,_' Malach replied, inhaling and exhaling audibly. _'I daren't test their patience any further. That I live is enough.'_  
  
He raised his head, meeting his uncle's gaze squarely. “What I did, I would do again,” Malach said, and though his innards twisted into knots, he knew he spoke truth. “Because the lives of my kinsmen, my family, are worth more to me than my title.”  
  
His eyes found Isolde at the back of the crowd, as close as they would let her come. He couldn't see Amyrei, but he knew his daughter was there, clutching her mother's hand.  
  
Isolde was strong, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, but she held herself proudly. She inclined her head, supporting him. It was enough to give him the strength to continue.  
  
“No,” Malach finished, meeting Dror's gaze and daring his uncle to claim cowardice. “I do not contest.”  
  


  
***


	34. Interlude: Malach (Part Two)

Dror startled, no doubt taken aback by Malach's capitulation. Another wave of murmuring rippled through the crowd. Isolde's gaze fell in understanding. Heimdal sighed gravely, but did not protest.  
  
“Very well,” said Dror, gathering himself as quickly as he had startled. “I call this tribunal to an end effective immediately. Guards, please escort the guilty party to detainment so that the punishment may be met.”  
  
His words fell like a proclamation, but the Kurai were too wounded, too fatigued, to offer anything more than a collective exhalation of relief. There was too much still to do. Rebuilding and healing and searching and mourning.  
  
Malach watched through downcast eyes as his kinsmen dispersed to their various duties, emptying the small clearing where Dror had decided to hold the tribunal. In the shadow of ruined Kurai, it was almost poetic.  
  
Isolde was one of the last to go. As their fellow kinsmen passed, Malach could see her fully, their daughter indeed by her side. Amyrei was too young to understand what had truly happened here. She would be confused when Malach did not return with them. She would be hurt by it.  
  
Malach knew that all too well. He had not been much older than Amyrei when his own mother had been cast out of Reiran. His father had not been much comfort. Ostracized by their kinsmen afterward, it was never clear whether Nahal had taken his own life, or he'd been killed. Malach favored the latter.  
  
A hunting party led by Dror left with five hunters. He returned with four. It was a simple matter of mathematics.  
  
The feud between brothers had been an open secret. Dror had always disdained Nahal in a classic case of second-born syndrome. Worse so when their father, Chieftain Adlai, had not discarded Nahal as heir, despite having wedded one of the cursed. Nahal didn't have to bear the weight of that stain for long and the burden of it fell to Malach.  
  
Isolde dared approach and Malach's guards closed ranks about him, blocking him from so much as reaching out to his wife.  
  
She drew up short, eyes as hard as diamonds, never one to be trifled with. She was not a lead hunter because of nepotism. Isolde had earned that reputation by skill alone.  
  
“Do you intend to deny my right of final words with the accused?” she demanded in a tone as cold as winter's kiss. “Or his daughter?”  
  
“Isolde.”  
  
Her gaze snapped to him. “It is our law, Malach. And if they are going to persist in punishing you for following any part of it, then the rest must be obeyed as well.” Isolde's eyes narrowed on the two warriors directly in front of Malach. “Well?”  
  
Wordlessly, they stepped aside. Wise moves on their part. Malach loved his wife dearly, and she was normally a level-headed woman. But there were times she could be reckless and he worried what she might do if denied.  
  
Bad enough that Malach was to be exiled. He didn't want Amyrei to be an orphan, not like he had been.  
  
“Thank you,” Isolde said with a tilt of her head, a feigned smile of appreciation. “Go hug your father, Amyrei.”  
  
He dropped to his knees as his daughter obeyed, running forward and throwing her arms over his shoulders. She squeezed him tight enough to constrict his breathing and Malach bore the discomfort, if only to hold onto her for a little longer. Amyrei was shaking against him, and he could feel the telltale hitch of silent sobs.  
  
“When are you coming home?” Amyrei wailed, her plaintive query like an arrow to the chest, sharp and painful.  
  
Malach exhaled a shaky breath. “I am not, Amyrei. I have to go away for awhile.”  
  
“Why?” Amyrei demanded, her thin arms tightening around, her tears soaking his neck and collar where she pressed her face against him.  
  
“It is something I have to do. To make sure you and your mother are safe,” Malach answered, because how else could he explain this to a seven year old? How could he explain the ancient and faulty traditions, the destiny that couldn't be avoided, what it truly meant to be outcast.  
  
“I want you to stay. I don't want you to go!”  
  
Isolde crouched next to them, one hand on Amyrei's back, her face devoid of expression, but Malach knew his wife, knew that emotion boiled beneath the surface. Heimdal hovered nearby, watching them, glaring at the guards who dared express open disdain.  
  
“It is not a matter of choice, Amyrei,” Isolde said gently. “This is something that must be done. It is duty. Your father cannot ignore it.”  
  
She sniffled and drew back, eyes red and puffy from crying. “When are you coming back?”  
  
Malach looked at Isolde, unable to lie to his daughter.  
  
She sighed. “It may be a long time, Amyrei. But you have to understand, your father will always love you no matter how far away he is.”  
  
“And nothing will ever change that,” Malach added fiercely.  
  
If Dror had wanted to hurt him, he could have done nothing worse. The sight of his daughter so broken-hearted made Malach ache from inside out. And when her face crumpled and she buried herself against his chest again, he didn't know if he would ever breathe again.  
  
Helpless, he looked at his wife. “Isolde.”  
  
“Don't,” she said, leaning in against his side, one arm wrapped around their daughter. “I know what you would say and I don't need to hear it. You're a fool. A brave one, but a fool, Malach.”  
  
He closed his eyes, hanging his head. This much he knew. “I'm sorry.”  
  
“I know you are.” She leaned closer, her forehead touching his. “Do what you must. And then return. Amyrei and I do not need the Kurai as much as we need you.”  
  
_Your wife is far wiser than you are_ , Heimdal murmured softly, speaking to his mind though he lingered in reality. _She will be safer here until the war is won_.  
  
Malach opened his eyes. “You would leave Reiran?”  
  
“Home is wherever you are, Malach,” Isolde replied with a touch of impatience, and her lips curved into a light smile. “That is what matters to me.”  
  
That lump in his throat grew thicker. Malach pushed his forehead against hers, love swelling within him. He did not deserve his family. They were his true gift.  
  
“Isolde,” said one of the warriors, clearly hesitating. “I do apologize but the Chieftain doesn't want to delay.”  
  
“Of course he doesn't,” Isolde muttered.  
  
She squeezed Malach one last time and drew back, pulling Amyrei with her. His daughter tried to cling to him, hands reaching and reaching, and Malach ached because he didn't dare reach back. He feared he wouldn't let go and that would only cause more trouble.  
  
“Come back to us,” Isolde said as Amyrei buried her face in her mother's belly, gripping tight. “Or so help me Asherah, I will track you down and end you myself.”  
  
Hands under his arms hauled Malach to his feet, legs wobbly beneath him. “I promise.”  
  
They pulled him away and Malach didn't resist because it would be pointless. He watched Isolde for as long as he could before he was forced to turn away.  
  
“Heimdal,” Malach said, keeping his tones low. He knew the guards could hear him and also knew, privacy would not be given. “I ask that you step aside.”  
  
His anima gave him a look, eyes narrowed, as the guards led Malach away from the crowd and prying eyes. “In which manner?”  
  
“Let me have some dignity. Let me face this punishment as a man, on my own two feet,” Malach asked, forcing himself to ignore the curl of unease in his belly. He didn't know which punishment Dror would choose though he had his suspicions.  
  
This would not be pleasant.  
  
Heimdal gnawed on his bottom lip, his magic a crackle of anxiety against Malach. “Very well,” he said, and placed a hand on Malach's arm, giving him a companionable squeeze. “But know that I am never far.”  
  
He vanished but not without a pulse of affection for his animus.  
  
Malach's guards grumbled with distaste around him, noticeably putting more distance between his person and themselves. As if he were suddenly going to become crazed and attack them with bursts of magic. Or that he carried a disease. Feh. If knowledge could be transmitted so easily, Malach would happily relieve them of their ignorance.  
  
They led him toward the edge of Reiran, the first line of trees that marked Shadowglade. At least they would not strip him of his pride in view of the others. Malach didn't know if he should consider it a mercy.  
  
A fire crackled and hissed in the early morning air. It had probably been lit hours ago, so that the embers would be fresh and hot.  
  
Dror was waiting for him with another half-dozen warriors. Malach knew their faces, their names, but their disdain was enough for him to pretend otherwise.  
  
His pride was the only thing that kept his head held high. Because of the sight of the fire confirmed his worst fears.  
  
They had marked his mother. They would mark him as well. And Malach doubted Dror would bother with anesthetizing herbs.  
  
“You have escaped execution,” Dror said as Malach was led toward him, a pressure to his shoulders dropping him to his knees. “But one could argue that exile might be worse.”  
  
Malach's eyes narrowed. “Careful, Uncle. That almost sounded as though you had any sympathy for me.”  
  
Dror's upper lip curled. “We'll see if you keep that pride once we're through here.” His gaze flicked to the assorted warriors. “Begin.”  
  
Hands landed on Malach's shoulders, bearing down, using their weight to keep him on his knees. He wasn't struggling, but they must have expected him, too. Malach refused to give them that pleasure.  
  
He stared up at Dror, defiant to the last, even when a hand buried itself in his hair, pulling it back. It tugged on his scalp without regard to his comfort, and though it was a noiseless task, Malach swore he could hear the sound of each handful being severed. He could certainly feel his head getting lighter as every inch of his hair was cut, braids and all.  
  
Marks of leadership, of his family, shorn away to litter the forest floor. It was not so much a hair cut as it was a hair hack.  
  
They ripped the rings from his ears, throwing them into the underbrush. It stung, but the pain was nothing compared to the pressure in his chest, like someone had thrown him into a tree. His head ached, pulsing and pounding in an effort to keep his ability at bay.  
  
His mother had escaped these indignities. She was neither warrior nor family leader. She had been the third born of a crafting family and they had different concepts of honor. They had wept – silently and in private – but they had wept for the loss of their daughter.  
  
And then Dror turned and pulled a firebrand from where it rested in the coals. Malach could not stop himself from tensing.  
  
This his mother had not escaped.  
  
Heimdal stirred with sudden understanding. _Pup.  
  
'Do not interfere_ ,' Malach hissed, his heart pounding in his chest.  
  
It was only pain, he reminded himself. He could bear pain. To show fear would be a weakness and Malach had surrendered too much already.  
  
“Be calm, nephew,” Dror said with fake reassurance. “It is only four strokes.”  
  
The fingers on Malach's shoulder dug deep, pressing against bone and muscle. This time, it was as much for his benefit as it was for theirs. The less he squirmed, the less it would hurt. Because if Dror made a mistake, he would keep trying until he got it right.  
  
Malach gritted his teeth and stared upward, refusing to so much as bow his head.  
  
He watched the red-orange tip of the firebrand come closer. He felt himself tense, heart pounding in his chest. Heimdal's anxiety seemed to triple his own. Malach's fingers drew into fists.  
  
Fire and burning and _agony_. Malach swallowed a scream, bit down on his bottom lip until he tasted blood, body jerking without his permission. The first stroke was a long, vertical sweep. He could smell the scorched flesh, blood bubbling up before it cauterized.  
  
His eyes watered. He did not dare blink. He drew in harsh breaths through his nose, twitching as the second stroke bisected the first.  
  
His fists shook. He could feel his blunt nails digging into his palms. The minor pain was useless as a distraction. Compared to the firebrand slicing across his forehead, everything else tickled.  
  
Fingers dug into his shoulders, keeping him still. Rocks sliced through his trousers, cutting his knees. Malach stared at the brand, a dull orange now, losing some of its heat. Most men would return it to the fire to complete the last two strokes. But not Dror.  
  
He continued, dragging the duller brand across Malach's forehead, blood trickling down as it was hot enough to sear, to mark, but not quite enough to instantly seal the wound. The sharp tip of the brand left a score in its wake.  
  
Ragged breaths built in his chest. Pain, so much pain. Someone was shouting for him but he could only hear the rush and roar of water. He didn't blink, didn't dare, blood on his tongue and down his throat from his lip.  
  
The last stroke curved a half-circle across the bottom of the first stroke. And Malach's last exhalation was a burst, sagging in the grip of the warriors.  
  
_Malach_.  
  
Words. He didn't have words. Could hardly think through the agony, the smell of his own charred flesh. The dull throb of his ears. The whisper of cold wind across his bared head.  
  
It wasn't over yet, he knew, and Dror turned back to the fire, drawing a different brand this time. One broader and flatter, glowing a dim orange, cloaked in ash and charcoal.  
  
His mother had escaped this fate as well. In many ways, she had been the lucky one. Malach was thrice-cursed and he knew it.  
  
Two more sets of hands grabbed Malach, by the arms this time, pulling them out and away from his body. They pushed him forward, head bowed toward the ground, spine curved in a parabolic arc.  
  
He couldn't breathe, staring at the ground, watching as blood dripped from his forehead to the leaf-strewn forest floor. He jerked as his tunic was ripped away, baring his back to the elements. To the heat of the firebrand.  
  
Malach braced himself for pain, for more of the same that marked his forehead. But this... this he could not have prepared himself for. His innards quailed; his body drew taut.  
  
The firebrand laid across his back, at the apex of his spine, right over a visible knob. Malach sucked in sharp breath as the hiss-crackle of heat over the scale-echoes rose in the morning. It didn't hurt, not like pain, at first.  
  
It was tolerable, like being stitched up by unsteady hands or hobbling home on a twisted, possibly broken ankle.  
  
Until the brand bit deeper, past the scales, into the unguarded and untempered flesh beneath. Malach's head snapped up, eyes widening, entire body thrashing as best it could under the weight of the four warriors.  
  
“Does it hurt?” he heard Dror say to him in a mocking croon. “Does it burn?”  
  
Malach clamped down on his tongue, bit so hard he tasted blood again, the copper thick and tacky in his mouth. Heat banked behind his eyes, jaw aching from clenching his teeth.  
  
Movement in the corner of his vision. He couldn't turn his head, the strain on his neck was too much. But he felt it, felt the addition of a second brand, burning further down his back, searing away more of the inherited scale-echoes.  
  
Something like a whimper bubbled up in Malach's chest. His head hung, no strength to keep it up, body curling in, trying to get away, but unable to do so.  
  
It hurt, far more than he could have guessed. He wanted to get away, to escape. He should have done so when Heimdal asked. He should have listened to Isolde. He should have--  
  
Malach shouted as another brand laid itself over his back, crisscrossing previously seared flesh and igniting new sections. His heart pulsed out of sync. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He thought he heard something on the edge of his awareness, his name, a request but no, it was gone just as quickly. Cast away by the press of the firebrands.  
  
“Stop,” he moaned, and he wasn't even sure if he said it aloud or in his head.  
  
“Stop,” he begged, fisted hands tugging and pulling, body thrashing and pushing, trying to get free, get away from the pain.  
  
Black danced in front of his eyes, merging with patches of red and orange and green. Malach blinked and couldn't clear it away. He tried to breathe but his lungs wouldn't work. There was only the pain, throbbing through him, erasing everything else.  
  
Stop, stop, stop, _stop, **stop** \--  
  
Mother's crying. Why is she crying? Why are her hands chained?  
  
Father? Father's crying, too. He's looking at mother and there are silent tears sliding down his cheeks. His hands hold Malach's tightly, white-knuckled and he's shaking.  
  
The Chieftain's yelling but no one is saying why. Mother is walking away and smiling through her tears and Malach tries to go after her, confusion tumbling from his lips, but Father won't let him go.  
  
And Heimdal looks at him with a sad, sad smile and promises that everything's going to be okay. Except Heimdal doesn't exist, he's not supposed to exist, so he has to be lying.  
  
He doesn't understand how anything can ever be okay again._  
  
“Stop!”  
  
Pain. Shouting. Screaming.  
  
Blood. On the air. On his tongue.  
  
He tumbled forward, hands catching himself on the leaf-blanketed ground. He... caught himself? He wasn't restrained, not anymore.  
  
Someone was screaming. Someone was thrashing.  
  
His shirt fell around his shoulders in tatters. He shifted his weight and fire crackled down his back and Malach's arms wobbled beneath him. Nothing short of a whine escaped him, and he gasped a breath. Pain, so much pain.  
  
He had to move. He needed to get up. They weren't holding him down so maybe they were done. Maybe it was time to leave.  
  
Malach tried to push himself up, but his knees refused to support his weight, wobbling beneath him. His arms protested, his back screamed fire and apocalypse. And all he could hear was a roaring, rushing, screaming sound.  
  
Something grabbed his face and Malach jerked, lashing out with one arm as he pushed himself backward. But the grip was firm, unyielding, even when his fist impacted with something solid.  
  
“Malach!”  
  
He blinked, vision a miasma of color, a stream of green and orange and blood-red. The fingers tightened, digging behind the curve of his jaw, strangely warm.  
  
“Malach!”  
  
Wait. That voice. He knew that voice.  
  
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to calm his frantic breathing, the double-pulse of his heartrate in his ears.  
  
“It's all right,” Heimdal continued, tones quieting but firm. “Focus, Malach. Rebuild your walls.”  
  
Walls?  
  
Realization poured over Malach like a bath in icy mountain water. Dread curled in his belly. He could hear it now, the shouting, and he knew what it was. The melange of noise clarified into begging, pleading, demanding that he stop. For mercy.  
  
He didn't know if the blood he smelled was his own.  
  
Heimdal's grip eased. “That's it.”  
  
His head was pounding, like someone had struck him repeatedly. Malach groaned, struggling to open his eyes again. Bright lights danced in front of him.  
  
He tried to speak but the words caught in his throat. He lurched forward, coughing, hacking really. Something bubbled up, and Malach coughed, watching as bloody sputum spilled from his lips, painting the forest floor.  
  
“What...?” he croaked, throat sore as though he'd been coughing for days or screaming for hours.  
  
“Never mind that now,” Heimdal said and he gently tugged Malach's face, urging him to look directly into the demi-deity's eyes. “Can you walk?”  
  
His body throbbed, pain a distant sensation. It was like being numb, only not.  
  
Malach dragged in a ragged breath. “I don't know.” He kept his gaze locked on Heimdal. He didn't want to look around. He could smell the death in the air and he knew it was his fault. All his fault.  
  
The world went black around the edges. He felt himself slump. His head was aching and the agony returned, slowly but surely. His fingers tingled. His knees wobbled. He slumped forward, against Heimdal's chest, and the demi-deity's arms carefully wrapped around him.  
  
Flailing at the loss of balance, Malach turned his head and stared, heart dropping into his belly.  
  
Dror was dead. His neck was bent at an unnatural angle, blood drizzling from his nose, over his mouth and cheeks. His eyes stared sightlessly upward. A jagged burst of rock pinned him to the ground, streaked with crimson.  
  
Malach sucked in a horrified breath. “Did I...?” He couldn't complete the question. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted the answer.  
  
“Later.” Heimdal's voice was firm. “For now, we must leave.”  
  
Leave. No. He couldn't leave. Isolde...?  
  
“She will be fine. She had no part in this,” Heimdal insisted, answering his unvoiced protest. “But if you stay, they will kill you, Malach.”  
  
He swallowed over a lump in his throat. “Leave,” he whispered.  
  
“Yes,” Heimdal said and as the world spun into darkness, the ground rumbled up beneath them, as though trying to swallow them whole. “We're leaving.”  
  
And then they were gone.  
  


  
***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has read and commented so far! I really do appreciate it! We're slowly approaching the chapters where it's in progress. :)
> 
> As always, feedback and critiques are more than welcome and appreciated. I self-edit so if you notice any grammatical errors feel free to point them out. Comments on characterization, plots, setting, etc, are also welcome. 
> 
> Thanks again! And I hope you enjoy the future chapters. ^_^


	35. Interlude: Raven

Raven twitched despite all efforts to hide it. Words could not describe how strange it was to be here, in that annoying thief's childhood home.  
  
He didn't want to understand Sleet. He didn't care about how that bastard was raised, or what his family was like. But here he was, bedridden, surrounded by Sleet's memories. Or, wait, didn't his mother call him Stewart?  
  
Raven's lips curled with derision.  
  
Rest, Alaris said. They could all use a few days of it. Raven in particular because of his leg.  
  
He looked down at it, heavily bandaged and numb thanks to whatever agent Alaris had spread over it. Eventually, the herbal concoction would wear off and he'd be back to the throbbing pain, but for now, it was tolerable.  
  
He wanted to blame that on Sleet, too. It was easier, Raven reflected, to blame everything on the brat. Stupid, stubborn, traitorous thief.  
  
Raven slammed his book closed, uninterested in the volume of fiction Sleet's mother had pressed into his hand, hoping it would wile away the hours, chase away the boredom. To her, he supposed, it was such a simple thing.  
  
Sleet could read. His mother simply didn't fathom that there were people who couldn't.  
  
Raven wasn't completely illiterate. He knew the basics. He had enough to survive. He could read maps and price lists and supply orders and signposts. But he had never picked up a book once in his life.  
  
Kaya loved to read. She would spend hours curled up in a chair in front of the fire, stacks of books beside her as she went through them one by one. She would borrow them from friends, neighbors, had even befriended the owner of the general store. He would loan her books for a small fee, since they couldn't afford to actually buy them.  
  
She used to tease him, tell him he might smile more if he listened to the stories. Sometimes, she could coax him to take a break and let her read to him.  
  
Raven would roll his eyes, back when he had two of them, and acquiesce only because it seemed to make her so happy. She had tried to teach him, little by little, eyes gleaming with every new word Raven added to his vocabulary.  
  
It still wasn't enough for him to read a book on his own, but it had been a start. Maybe, if she had lived, Raven would be literate now. He would also not be gallivanting across the world with a ragtag team of idiots, all because of a debt he owed and a man he had vowed to kill.  
  
 _Frost._  
  
The name echoed over and through Raven's skull. His fingers drew into fists, his lips pressed to a thin line.  
  
He could still remember that blank look pasted over smirking lips, the sound of screaming, the smell of blood, the rippling fire and the screech of hundreds upon hundreds of demons.  
  
 _Too late_ , his conscience whispered to him at the darkest of times. He had been too late to save Kaya, but he'd be damned if he missed the opportunity to make the one responsible for death pay for that sin.  
  
 _With a grunt, Raven dumped his armload of firewood into the crate. It clattered noisily, and to his dismay, only filled the crate halfway. He'd have to go back for a second load.  
  
Sighing, Raven wiped sweat from his brow. He gave the fire a long look before scooping up a couple logs and tossing them onto the flames. The fire hissed and crackled – sap burning bright and emitting sparks. The heat was intense and more sweat gathered beneath his tunic.  
  
“Done for the day?”  
  
Raven grabbed the bottom edge of his tunic, pulling it up to wipe his face. Soot and sweat streaked across his face. “Almost, sir.”  
  
Gaither chuckled as he unhooked his apron, tossing it over a nearby chair. “I think I can finish the rest. Why don't you head out? Enjoy what's left of the day?”  
  
Letting his tunic fall, Raven shook his head. “I'd better finish here. You'll need a full load to finish Mr. Lynch's commission.”  
  
“You work too much, son.” Gaither turned, heading out of the smithery and into the shop, leaving Raven to follow after him. It was a relief as the summer humidity made the heat of the forge nigh-unbearable.  
  
Though, Raven supposed, if he intended to continue his apprenticeship and eventually become a smith in his own rights, he'd have to get used to it.  
  
“I work as hard as I need to,” Raven corrected, watching as his employer crossed the floor in swift strides, leaning out the door to switch their 'open' sign to 'closed.' “Isn't it early?”  
  
Gaither smiled, stretching his arms over his head with audible pops of his spine. “Yes. But it so happens that I have something that needs attending this evening. It's a small town, Raven. My customers can commission me in the morning.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
Passing by, Gaither clapped him on the shoulder. “You, too, should enjoy yourself. You're young still. Have some fun. Meet somebody, perhaps.”  
  
Raven folded his arms, well-used to receiving this bit of advice. “I'm working on it.”  
  
“Not fast enough.” Gaither gave him a wink, raking a hand through his salt and pepper hair. “Don't end up like me, a cranky bachelor with no sons to carry on the family business.”  
  
Arching a brow, Raven watched Gaither cross back into the smith and toward the forge-fire, tugging the chain that would drop the dampener, choking the fire. And after Raven had just added fuel.  
  
“I don't think there is a single person in this town who would define you as cranky, sir.”  
  
Gaither laughed. “You might be right about that.” He made shooing motions with his hands. “Seriously, Raven. Get out of here.”  
  
He backed toward the door, knowing his employer wasn't going to be swayed otherwise. Gaither was a strong sort. He'd work himself half-to-death, forgetting to eat and sleep when he had a project. But in between commissions, or before starting a new one, he'd suddenly turn into Mr. Procrastination.  
  
“I will,” Raven reassured, feeling the edges of a smile touching his lips. “After I finish bringing in the wood.”  
  
“If you insist.” Gaither pulled open the door leading to his house, situated perfectly adjacent to the smith. “And tomorrow morning, we'll start on Mr. Lynch's commission.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
Shaking his head, Gaither closed the door behind him. No doubt he was off to change his clothes before escaping to the cheer and comfort of the local tavern. Gaither was the only man Raven had ever met who could drink and drink and never become inebriated.  
  
Raven headed back into the customer area, double-checking that the door was closed and sliding the lock. Theft wasn't a huge concern in Walton but it never hurt to be too careful. There was a lot of weaponry lying around which could be worth a pretty coin in the larger cities.  
  
He peered through the window, frowning at the sight of dark clouds rolling in. They were moving rather fast. That couldn't be good. He'd better hurry.  
  
Raven drew the shutters, ensured everything was secured, and hurried back into the forge-area. The fire had dampened significantly. In a few more minutes, it would be nothing but embers.  
  
He pulled out the metal grid, placing it in front of the flames for added protection, and then slipped out the back door. It was still hot and humid, the sky above him a bright blue, giving no indication of the storm threatening from the east.  
  
Raven filled his arms from the woodpile, making a mental note to chop more tomorrow. Mr. Lynch had wanted a whole set and Gaither would be up all the day and the night ensuring he'd complete it. He didn't like to leave a project half-finished, feeling that taking a break between one piece and the next made them look dissimilar, even if only subtly.  
  
He took his armload back into the smithery, dumped it in the crate, and brushed off his arms. Sap stuck to his fingers, mixing with dirt, turning them a sticky brown. He frowned, tried to brush it off on his shirt, but only soap and water would do. Damn. Kaya was going to let him hear it now.  
  
Maybe if he stopped by the bakery, picked her up something sweet, she wouldn't notice. It was all too easy to distract his little sister with a fresh cinnamon bun.  
  
A fond smile curved Raven's lips.  
  
Yes, he would do just that. Their finances could afford a little treat for now. And if not, he'd just pick up a few extra tasks around town. The residents were always in need of something being done, whether it was fence-building or wood-chopping or an extra pair of hands on the farm.  
  
Raven grabbed his sword and sheath from behind the counter. He considered himself a novice but Master Tyle thought he showed promise, perhaps one day becoming a master in his own right. This particular blade was cheap in make, but it suited his purposes. A true sword would be his once he mastered the art; Gaither had already vowed to make it.  
  
He took the back door out, locking it behind him and tucking the key into his pocket. That Gaither trusted him with it was a point of pride for Raven. The blacksmith didn't have to. Raven and Kaya were strangers to Walton when they first showed up five years ago. Yet, the people here had been oddly welcoming.  
  
It was as strange as it had been refreshing. After spending the better part of a decade in a nomadic life, it was nice to find somewhere to settle. Kaya had certainly approved.  
  
The sky was still a bright blue, the sun gleaming as it edged toward the horizon. Raven rounded the corner of the smithery, looking to the east. The clouds had gotten closer, rolling dark over each other, and no doubt it would start raining before he got home. Damn.  
  
He hurried, jogging down the road to the bakery, uninterested in getting soaked. He hated rain and storms. He hated being damp, clothes clammy as they clung to his skin. He hated--  
  
Raven skidded to a halt, eyes widening, as a ball of fire bloomed in the sky, slamming into the butcher's shop yards in front of him. He dove to the ground, covering his head with his hands as flaming bits of wood and other debris flew through the air. Someone screamed, the smell of ash and smoke rising.  
  
What in the hell?  
  
Fire crackled and spit. Raven pushed himself onto his hands, looking upward. More fireballs were falling from the sky, varying in size, slamming into buildings, the ground, everywhere around him. People were screaming and there was a stampede as those in the streets flooded away from the firestorm.  
  
The dark cloud was closer, but now that Raven looked, he realized it wasn't a cloud at all. Shapes broke off from the mass, diving down at Walton. Winged creatures, with fangs and claws and glowing eyes.  
  
Demons!  
  
Where had they come from? And why?  
  
Raven scrambled to his feet, backing into a nearby alleyway, narrow as it was between the general store and the bakery.  
  
People screamed in terror as they ran by and fire painted the town in shades of eerie ocher. The demons descended like a horde of darkness, attacking anyone who crossed their path but not making great effort to chase anyone down either.  
  
It was as though they were looking for something in particular.  
  
Raven swallowed thickly, drawing his sword. The cheap metal flashed dully at him, edges more blunt than sharp, but a better weapon than his bare fists.  
  
He had to get back home. He had to get Kaya and get out of here before they became victims, too. Whatever this was, Raven didn't want to stick around to find out.  
  
He moved, continuing down the alleyway and out the other side. The roads were less crowded here, narrower, and though littered with debris, safer to pass.  
  
Above them, the sky was dark, more winged beasts dropping down from the rolling clouds, that were just as much storm as they were cover for the attack. Raven kept close to the buildings, ducking under awnings when possible, trying to stay out of sight.  
  
He didn't dare look too closely at the corpses strewn about, blood a garish stain upon the road, faces twisted with fear.  
  
His and Kaya's flat was on the edge of town, in a residential cul-de-sac with several other cheap and shoddy lodgings. It was appropriate for them, small but functional, and Kaya had made it a home with whatever donated furnishings the townspeople had provided.  
  
This time of day, she could usually be found in the garden, harvesting what few vegetables were ripe enough for dinner. Raven hoped she'd had enough sense to go indoors, bar the doors and windows, hide herself in the closet even. He didn't know if the demons had made it that far.  
  
Something screeched.  
  
Raven dove before he looked, narrowly missing a collision with a winged monstrosity. He rolled on his shoulder, springing back into a crouch, clutching his sword.  
  
It was made of teeth and talons, black fur and twisted limbs. It stank of sulfur and rot and it dove at him without a second's pause. Raven pushed himself to his feet, sword swinging through the air, batting at the gnarled creature and knocking it away with a glancing blow. It wasn't heavy, more feather-light bones and webbed wings, and it crashed into a nearby building with an audible splat.  
  
Shuddering, Raven turned away, breaking into a run down the road. A block, maybe two, and their housing complex would be in sight.  
  
He tried to keep to the shadows, hide under awnings, but the sky was dark with the descending horde and more of them choked the streets. These newer arrivals were wingless, quadrupedal, dripping fangs and bodies far too sleek to be natural. Their nostrils flared and Raven knew they could sniff him out.  
  
He ran faster. He tried to keep his eyes forward.  
  
He didn't see whatever it was that lunged at him from the side.  
  
Raven hit the ground, gasping as something heavy landed on his back. His sword skittered from his grip and Raven thrashed, trying to throw off whatever was digging cat-like claws into his skin. He heard hissing, felt the pain and blood dribbling free as long scores dragged through his clothes and down his back.  
  
He growled, throwing himself to one side, trying to dislodge his attacker. He felt the claws rip gouges of flesh from him as the beast tumbled and Raven pulled himself to his feet, gritting his teeth against the fire blossoming on his back.  
  
The creature pounced at him and Raven dodged, catching a claw to the arm, leaving four long stripes behind. He dove for his sword, fingers closing around the hilt and as he rolled to his back, he swung wildly, feeling the warm splash of blood on his face.  
  
There was a yelp, another hiss and Raven rolled to his knees, lunging with the blade, catching the strange beast in the throat. Or he hoped it was anyway. More blood spilled free, sulfurous and a sickly yellow.  
  
The creature collapsed, a mottled thing that was part-cat, part-possum, and part something Raven had never seen before.  
  
Panting, Raven spared his arm a glance and broke back into a run. He didn't have time. They hurt but he wouldn't die. He would have to wrap and clean the wounds soon or infection would set in, but not now. Not yet.  
  
Their housing complex came into sight. Raven's heart skipped a beat, relief crashing over them. It looked untouched. The flood of demons and fireballs had not yet descended. Kaya was still safe.  
  
He passed the first house and the second, both silent and dark. Whether it was because their occupants had already fled town or never made it home, Raven didn't know. He'd worry about others after he made sure Kaya was all right.  
  
Their flat came into sight and Raven's stomach twisted into knots. The front door was blown off its hinges, hanging askew in the frame.  
  
He burst inside, sword clutched in his hands. “Kaya!”  
  
Something barreled into him and Raven went crashing to the floor, landing on his back and sliding across the rough wood. Fiery pain eclipsed all else on the edge of a scream, though he managed to keep hold of his sword.  
  
A heavy weight smashed into his arm, pinning down his sword-hand and his blade. An even heavier force settled on his chest, immobilizing him. The odor was back, that of fire and decay, filling all of Raven's senses. He braced himself for an attack, for slashing claws or snapping fangs, but nothing, just the weight.  
  
“Raven!”  
  
He fought his way back from the swimming dots on the edge of his vision. “Kaya?”  
  
Raven turned his head, searching the dim of their flat, and found his sister, pale with fright as she stood against the wall as though bracing for a blow that hadn't come. Her gaze landed on him, her lips pressed thin, but she didn't speak again.  
  
Someone else stepped into Raven's line of sight, blocking his view of his sister. He expected a beast, but what he saw was a man, ordinary from head to toe. Brown hair and eyes, dressed in breeches and a tunic, disdain curling his thin lips.  
  
“You're interrupting,” he said in a low voice. Something flickered at his fingertips, like lightning in the midst of a storm.  
  
Raven sucked in a breath, free arm slowly moving across the floor, fingers searching for anything he could use as a weapon. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”  
  
“None of your business.” The man's eyes flicked to the demon. “Kill him when I'm done.”  
  
A growl was the stranger's answer, one that sounded far too eager for Raven's approval.  
  
“No! Don't!” Kaya shouted and she lurched forward a few steps, hands lifted. “Please, I'll cooperate. Just... let him go.”  
  
The man laughed, his attention turning back toward Kaya. “That's very touching. But I don't need your cooperation.” He moved closer, trapping her against the wall with nowhere to run. “This is my first time so I expect it will hurt.”  
  
“No!”  
  
Raven shouted, thrashing beneath the creature, trying to move to get free. Kaya had gone pale, blood dripping from a split in her lip. Clearly, she had already tried to struggle.  
  
The beast pinning Raven snarled, bearing down. He felt something in his chest snap, pain radiating outward, black dots on the edge of his vision.  
  
“If you want to blame someone,” the stranger said, hand snapping out lightning-fast, fingers curling around Kaya's throat. “Blame the gods.”  
  
Kaya gasped, her hands snapping up, locking around the man's. Raven could see her straining, see her muscles rippling, but the stranger didn't so much as budge. She kicked out at him, striking his knee, his leg, and he didn't falter.  
  
“Let her go!” Raven shouted, hand flailing and he grabbed something. The leg of one of the end tables, he thought.  
  
He grabbed and he pulled, swinging it around, crashing it against the creature atop him. The table smashed into a half-dozen pieces, raining down bits of wood. There was a yelp, the feeling of claws digging into his flesh. The beast tumbled, half to the side and Raven's sword-bearing arm was free.  
  
Something swelled in the room, something without tangible shape. It seemed to knock the very air from Raven's lungs, ripple over his body like a really loud rumble of thunder.  
  
Kaya made a sound, a desperate one. She was getting paler and paler. Raven staggered, vision dotting around the edges, and heard the snarl mere seconds before the beast tackled him again. It was large and had more limbs than was natural. It bore him to the ground, snapping fangs and slashing with talons and Raven wrestled with it, sword swinging wildly.  
  
That odd sensation grew and grew. Raven gasped for breath, heard the stranger's low, amused chuckling. Felt blood trickle free as claws rent and tore into flesh. He turned his head away from snapping teeth, rolled underneath the beast, and screamed when claws dragged down his face, the smell of copper so thick in the air he could taste it.  
  
Pain. So much pain.  
  
Kaya screamed. The bubble of power, magick even, burst. And then it all went silent, disturbingly so.  
  
“Kaya!”_  
  
A knock on the door catapulted Raven from the memories. He looked around wildly, for the moment forgetting where he was.  
  
“Raven? Are you awake?” The query was muffled but genuine in its concern.  
  
He sighed and rubbed his forehead with one hand, sinking further into the bed. “Yeah. Come in.”  
  
The door opened with a squeak of unoiled hinges and Sleet's mother popped her head in, all smile and bright eyes. “I've brought you dinner,” she said, easily balancing a tray with one hand. “Stew and bread and milk, for proper healing.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
He could never fully explain why it felt odd to be polite to Sleet's mother. She didn't deserve his ire, he supposed. Still, despite the sheer similarity between her and her son, Raven couldn't fathom how a woman as bright and generous as she could beget a son as selfish and foolish as Sleet.  
  
“My pleasure, sweetheart.” She set the tray down on the bedside table and grabbed the towel slung across her shoulder, handing it to him. “Now be careful. It's hot.”  
  
“I will.”  
  
It certainly smelled delicious. Raven hadn't been hungry before but could now feel his appetite returning.  
  
“How are you healing?” she asked, puttering around the room to the window, where she drew back the curtains, revealing a dark sky roiling with rain-heavy clouds. “Hmm, looks like you guys made it just before the real storm arrived.”  
  
Raven made a non-committal noise, reaching for the glass of milk and swallowing down half of it. He wasn't in the mood for conversation. Luckily, Sleet's mother seemed to recognize that.  
  
She planted her hands on her hips, gave the window another approving look, and then flashed Raven a smile. “Enjoy your dinner. I'll be up later for the dishes.”  
  
Raven nodded, reaching for a piece of bread, freshly-baked by the smell of it. The crust was hard and crackling, but the inside was soft and chewy – delicious. Sleet's mother – eventually he would remember her name – excused herself, closing the door behind her.  
  
Raven pulled the tray into his lap and ate, stomach gurgling at the appetizing aroma floating to his senses. His eyes flicked to the window, catching the telltale flashes of lightning just as he heard the soft patter of rain begin on the roof. Just missed the storm indeed. It should have been snowing, but instead they got this.  
  
Was Frost to blame for this, too?  
  
The bread sat like lead in his stomach. Raven's fingers clenched around the handle of the spoon but he couldn't bring himself to lift it to his lips.  
  
Thinking of Frost was always sure to kill his appetite, sour his mood, and remind him of his failure. Kaya was dead because of that bastard. And Raven hadn't been able to protect her.  
  
His memories after the beast tore into him and Frost killed Kaya were very fractured, disjointed things. He remembered pain and fire and screaming. He remembered the sound of Kaya's shrieks, Frost's laughter, the beast's snarling. The smell of blood and sulphur buried everything.  
  
He never expected to wake again. But he had. By some fluke or stroke of luck or maybe some deity had been watching out for him, Raven had lived long enough for help to arrive. He'd been a beaten, ragged, and torn up strip of a man, his face ruined, his body ravaged, but he'd been alive.  
  
Alaris had come to Walton, too little, too late. She'd been looking for Kaya. Instead, she had found what was left of Raven, Kaya's body, and a destroyed town. Very few people had survived and Raven was one of them.  
  
Raven owed Alaris his life. She healed the claw marks, though the scars remained, in rippled, twisting white lines across his back and torso. She tried to heal his eyes, too, but could only restore sight to one, and partial sight to the other. Raven had found the latter more hindering than helpful, one eye trying to overcompensate for the other. The eyepatch had proven invaluable.  
  
“I can help you find him,” Alaris had said as she poured her magic into him, the forced healing as agonizing to endure as that which caused the original wound. “You can help me stop him.”  
  
“Why?” Raven had grated out, teeth grinding together, a white-knuckled grip on the blood-stained coverlet beneath him. “ _Why_?”  
  
Alaris had looked at him with sympathy and pity, her lips pressed together in a thin line. He could feel the magic around her, pressing against his skin and burrowing beneath it. There was more than just healing here.  
  
She felt the same – and yet different – than Frost. There was a taste to her, a taste of otherworld and Raven didn't like it or trust it. But she knew how he could find his sister's killer, and she had the answers Raven needed. She had also healed him, and it seemed an even exchange that he help her in return. Pragmatic to a fault, that was Alaris.  
  
 _If you want to blame someone, blame the gods_ , Frost had said, though at the time, Raven hadn't known that was his name.  
  
Raven blamed the gods, too. Frost was the murderer, but the gods, whoever it was that had decided humans needed to walk hand in hand with second-rate deities, well, they were the ones that handed over the weapon. They were the ones who provoked.  
  
Food tasting like ash in his mouth, Raven abandoned his half-eaten food and shoved the tray onto the side table. He stared out the window, watching the lightning flash and the rain pelt the thin glass.  
  
Frost would die. And Raven would let no one or nothing stop him.  
  


  
****


	36. Interlude: Tungsten

Dinner was a silent, awkward affair. With most of their team bed-bound or a no-show, there was little conversation to be had. Sleet's mother tried but no one was in a chatty mood, least of all Ashur-kun, Iblion-san, or Alaris-san.  
  
It was kind of cute, though, the way Sleet's father kept sending her indulgent looks. They really adored each other, Tungsten thought. They were a good match, kind of like his own parents, though they had been an arranged partnership.  
  
Sleet's mother had prepared a big meal for them. Fresh bread and meat stew and steamed vegetables and fruit pies with glazed crusts. Tungsten had drooled at the sight of it all. It was such a shame that it had hardly been touched.  
  
And then everyone left the table and their messes behind. Tungsten was personally embarrassed for the behavior of his companions. Alaris-san, at the very least, should have known better.  
  
Tungsten was determined to be polite. His parents had taught him far better than poor manners. So he rose to his feet to help Sleet's mother clear the table. By Aesir! Even Sleet's father had disappeared, murmuring something about firewood.  
  
“Oh, sweetheart, you don't have to do that,” Sleet's mother said as he carried an armload of dirtied dishes into the adjoining kitchen.  
  
Tungsten tipped them into the washbasin, already filled with sudsy water. “I have to do something,” he said with a half smile. “I'd feel useless otherwise.”  
  
“You're a guest, dear. You should be resting.”  
  
He shook his head and followed her back into the dining room. It would take quite some time to clear this table. “Sadly, I'm probably in the best shape out of all of us.”  
  
Raven and Malach couldn't move from their beds. Malach wasn't even conscious, truth be told. Ashur still seemed to operate in a daze, a half-catatonic state. Beryl was the only uninjured one, but no one considered him part of the group. He was just there. Sleet was still working through old injuries and Alaris was exhausted from healing everyone.  
  
“I noticed,” Sleet's mother said. “You all look as though you've been through Tartarus and back. Though I'm at a loss for how my Stewart fits into this.” She hefted an untouched pan of fried potatoes, clucking her tongue. “I love him, but that poor child has yet to find his way.”  
  
Tungsten winced. “Mrs. Und-- I mean, Mrs. Upton--”  
  
“Please, call me Christine. Any friend of Stewart's is family here,” she assured him with another one of those bright, lovely smiles that Sleet clearly had not inherited.  
  
“Friend might be too strong of a word,” Tungsten admitted, lifting a tray of hand-formed biscuits from the table. They had been delicious with fresh butter and honey.  
  
Christine tilted her head. “Oh?”  
  
Tungsten ducked his head and shoulders, unwilling to meet Christine's eyes. “I'm afraid Sleet isn't too keen on traveling with us,” he said, and it felt a bit too much like tattling for his taste. Best to be as vague as possible.  
  
“What do you mean? Whatever is going on?” Her frown deepened as she led him back to the kitchen, directing him toward canisters and jars for the leftover food.  
  
“It's a long story.”  
  
There was a splash as Christine dropped the empty dishes into the sudsy bucket. “Well, these are going to need a good scrubbing. I have the time.”  
  
Tungsten worried his bottom lip. ' _Am I allowed, my dear_?' he asked, because he truly didn't know. Was their mission supposed to be a secret to the general public?  
  
Asclepius' warm regard washed over him. _It's no secret. But try not to worry her. I don't want to be responsible for nightmares._  
  
Eek. Neither would Tungsten.  
  
He sighed, the enormity of the task weighing on him. “I hardly know where to begin, but I'll do my best.”  
  
“That's all I ask.” Christine-san smiled and plunged her hands into the heated water, reaching for the first dirty dish.  
  
 _Good_ , Asclepius said with an inner smile. _I was hoping I could find you a distraction._  
  
Tungsten frowned. ' _Whatever do you mean?'  
  
I have to go away for a bit_. At least she sounded reluctant. _I'll be back though. I promise_. She gave him an intangible hug, a quick squeeze.  
  
“Tungsten?”  
  
He held up a hand. “One moment, please, Christine-san.” He turned his focus back inward. ' _From where?'  
  
A Conclave's been summoned_. Now she sounded hurried, as though she were in a rush. _I'll explain when I get back, all right?_  
  
Asclepius didn't wait for him to respond. She was gone from his mind as though she had never been there in the first place. It was a strange sensation. For all that she didn't exactly live in his skull, he still felt oddly lighter. Emptier.  
  
Abandoned.  
  
Tungsten's frown deepened, his hand pressing to his chest. This unusual melancholy, was this perhaps why Ashur-kun looked so downcast?  
  
This wasn't the first time Asclepius had to take care of some business in the immortal world. Yet, it felt different. He could still feel her as though from a distance. This was different, as though she had cut off all forms of contact.  
  
Tungsten inhaled and exhaled, returning his attention to the outer world. “I apologize,” he said, lowering his hand from his chest. “Asclepius was informing me of her departure.”  
  
Christine blinked at him. “Asclepius? As in the Great Healer?”  
  
It was Tungsten's turn to be surprised. Considering Sleet's ignorance of all matters deity-related, he expected much the same from his mother. Perhaps this was one case where a child had ignored the teaching of the parents.  
  
Tungsten nodded, settling beside Christine with intent to rinse and dry. “She's part of the long story.”  
  
Scrub brush attacking a rather fierce blotch on her cookware, Christine chuckled. “Well, I'm listening now. Hand me that scraper?”  
  
He followed her line of sight, reaching to his left where a set of shelves were mostly empty, ready for drying cookware. There was, indeed, a scraper, which he handed over.  
  
“So you are,” Tungsten replied and contemplated just where to begin.  
  
It would be kind of nice, he realized, to talk to someone about all this. Especially someone who was completely uninformed of the whole situation. Someone who could look at the matter with fresh eyes and ears and who wouldn't see him for the fumbling, naïve mage that he continued to prove himself to be.  
  
“I suppose it all started when I literally ran into Sleet,” Tungsten began with a little laugh, self-deprecating though it might have been.  
  
He had never been a good storyteller. He remembered the details but never in order. He liked to go on tangents, was easily distracted, and all too often forgot the ending.  
  
But Christine was patient as he fumbled through an explanation. He told her everything. The animum bond. The war. What they were up against. The sheer enormity of the task Aesir had given them.  
  
Tungsten tried to be vague on purpose. It wasn't his place to tell Sleet's mother about his connection to Frost or his reluctance to fight or his thievery. A man had the right to make his own choices no matter how wrong they might be. Tungsten couldn't claim to understand any of Sleet's motivations, but it wasn't his responsibility to enlighten Mrs. Upton.  
  
By the end of it all, the dishes were clean, the extra food set aside for breakfast and/or lunch, and the dining table put back to rights. He and Sleet's mother shared a kettle of bergamot tea between them, sweetened with milk and a touch of sugar. Christine had even provided a nice plate of lemon biscuits.  
  
“It sounds farfetched, I know,” Tungsten said as he cupped the delicate mug with both hands, fearful of knocking it from the table. “If I hadn't seen half of it with my own eyes, I wouldn't believe it either.”  
  
Christine sipped at her tea, focused on something past Tungsten's head, her face a little pale but her expression clear. “I had been hearing rumors of dark things in the south and west but hadn't put much weight behind them. Out here, people talk. It's a way of coping with the isolation.” She exhaled shakily, hiding behind her cup. “If even half of what you're saying is true, then Aesir help us all.”  
  
Tungsten made a noncommittal noise, distracting himself with a crunchy biscuit. The emptiness in his head was starting to bother him on several levels. He kept expecting Asclepius to comment on his story, to tease him, but the silence kept proving her absence.  
  
Would it be like this in the end, he wondered. If they survived this war, if they proved victorious over Balaam, would Asclepius return to Elysium, leaving Tungsten with this unpalatable loneliness?  
  
His shoulders slumped and he sipped at the tea.  
  
“Do all of your friends have one of these bonds?” Christine asked, seeming to gather herself, straightening in her chair, her tone no-nonsense.  
  
Tungsten sighed. “No. Raven doesn't. I'm told that it was his sister who was an animus. And Beryl, who I wouldn't call a friend either, is not one.”  
  
“Was?”  
  
Tungsten's gaze dropped to the table, finger tracing a score in the hand-carved wood. He supposed a young child, bored with conversation, had dug their fork over and over into the table. It seemed like something Sleet would do.  
  
“She was killed. By Frost. Or Balaam. It depends who you ask.”  
  
Christine leaned forward, resting her weight upon her elbows on the table. “What do you think?”  
  
“I don't know Frost well enough to guess. You'd be better off asking Beryl-san,” Tungsten admitted, contemplating long and hard an adjacent scratch. This one better-resembled the scrape of errant dishware. “Maybe even Sleet-san.”  
  
“What does Stewart have to do with this?”  
  
Tungsten blinked, gaze snapping up guiltily. Oops. He hadn't meant to mention that. This would be one of those cases where he had effectively put his foot in his mouth.  
  
He set the cup down on the table, fingers rubbing the etched flowers on the side. “Um, I really think you should ask him about that.” He stared hard at his tea, watching it ripple slightly in the cup. He hoped Christine wouldn't press. He never did know how to resist when backed into a corner.  
  
“Believe me, I will,” she replied with a firmness that Tungsten remembered all too well from his own mother, not that she had much reason to discipline him.  
  
Tungsten was spoiled as a child, given everything he needed, including all the smothering affection in the world. Why would he have reason to act out? Though one might consider his decision to become a mage and leave his parent's home an act of disobedience.  
  
He frowned. It had been years since he'd seen his parents. Months since he'd last written them or sent word to reassure them. Surely they were worried.  
  
“Until then, maybe you can answer some other questions,” Christine said, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Stewart is one of these animus, yes? Which one?”  
  
This, at least, was a topic Tungsten felt comfortable with. “Erebus.”  
  
Christine arched a brow. “The guardian of Tartarus? Seems an ill match.”  
  
A laugh bubbled out of Tungsten before he could stop it. “Both he and Sleet-san seem to think so.” He brought his tea to his lips, sipping at it. “I have the honor of being bonded to Asclepius. She'd be happy to meet you, but apparently, they are all attending a Conclave right now.”  
  
“Perhaps when she returns then.” Christine settled more comfortably in her chair. “What's it like? The bond I mean?”  
  
He pondered, shifting around in his chair. “It's like nothing I've ever felt,” he said honestly, and then felt the heat touch his cheeks. “I can feel her all the time, like a warm presence. She can talk to me inside my head and thanks to her, I have some unique abilities.”  
  
Christine nodded thoughtfully. “And what do the deities get out of it?”  
  
Tungsten frowned, forehead crinkling. “That's a fair question. I'm honestly not sure.” He nibbled on his bottom lip, trying to remember the many, many lessons Asclepius had given him. “I know that they are only allowed on the mortal plane by invitation, which the bond implies. But otherwise, it seems that we're getting the lion's share of the benefits.”  
  
She sipped her tea. “There's so few of you. Are there more?”  
  
“There were.” Tungsten ducked his head, thinking too strongly of the destruction left behind in multiple municipalities and the sight of far too many limp bodies. “Balaam has been busy.”  
  
“I see.” Wisely, Christine seemed more than ready to steer away from that topic. “And what about you, Tungsten? What's your story?”  
  
He blinked. “My story?”  
  
Her smile was soft, understanding. “Where were you born? Do you have any parents? Siblings?” Christine's gaze fell to the tabletop. “You are telling me about a war, about how all of you are risking your lives, and I worry for Stewart. It stands to reason that someone is worrying for you as well.”  
  
Guilt clawed its way out of Tungsten's innards. “My parents are still living.” At least, he assumed they were. He hadn't heard of any attacks in Nipon. “I am an only child.”  
  
“I'm surprised they let you out of their sights.”  
  
Tungsten's shoulders hunched. “It took a lot of persuading,” he admitted, and toyed with the cup of tea, no longer interested in drinking it. “Mother wished for me to be a scholar. Father thought I would do well as a teacher. Instead, I cultivated an interest in magic.”  
  
Christine made an understanding noise. “Rebellion?”  
  
“Not quite.” Tungsten stared at the table, the slight nicks in the wood, the imperfections of the stain. “I didn't lack for anything as a child. I was well-loved and my parents were attentive. The worst I could say is that it was stifling.”  
  
Compared to Raven-san's upbringing or Alaris', Tungsten knew he sounded like a spoiled brat. He came from wealth, the sole child of parents who had struggled for too long to have one. He was doted on, received the best of care, and never lacked for anything. That they wrapped him in cotton and treated him as though he were made of glass was only to be expected. His mother had suffered four miscarriages before she successfully managed to give birth to him.  
  
He still felt guilty for leaving them. He was in his thirties. He was an adult. He had every right to go on with his life, finding his own path, his own dreams. Yet, the guilt gnawed its way through his inner self all the time.  
  
“How did they take your decision to be a mage?” At least Christine sounded honestly interested.  
  
Tungsten ducked his head. “Father was supportive. Mother was disappointed. She didn't want me to leave. But they didn't stop me either.” He sipped at his tea, which had grown lukewarm due to his inattention. “In the end, Mother was actually the one to locate and contact Master Yuu for me, to prove that she would support me.”  
  
Christine smiled and patted his hand, rising from the table. “It sounds like they really love you.”  
  
“I always thought so. Let me help,” he said, strangely desperate to change the subject.  
  
She must have sensed that because she didn't protest this time. “I would appreciate it. I also need to deliver some dinner to our missing guests and our bed-bound guests.”  
  
“I can help with that, too.”  
  
“I thought so.”  
  
They dropped off their dishware and tea cups in the kitchen, leaving them on the counter until some fresh water could be brought in for washing.  
  
“Is that what the lines on your forehead mean?” Christine asked, gesturing to the dark marks. “Do they have something to do with studying magic?”  
  
Tungsten nodded, resisting the urge to reach up and trace the inked lines. They would only smear, though to be fair, it was time to wash and ink them again. “Yes. They denote my status as an apprentice mage.”  
  
“What happens when you become fully-fledged?”  
  
He rubbed the edge of a trailing line just below his left temple, showing her their temporary nature. “They become permanent. The design shifts as well, bearing glyphs of my chosen name and patron deity.”  
  
“Permanent?” Christine paled on the edges.  
  
Tungsten chuckled, guessing her line of thought. “It's done by magic, closer to branding than tattooing. I'm told there's some discomfort but no pain.”  
  
Though, at the rate the world was degenerating, Tungsten may never succeed in this venture. Fafnir had given him his blessing, but the others were gone, destroyed by Balaam. Tungsten would never receive the mark of Tiamat, Gilgamesh, or Sybaris. Though now that Malach had joined them, Tungsten could court Heimdal and whether Iblion had the ability, Tungsten could ask him as well. That left Hephaestion who promised to endow the mark as soon as he completed his magic studies with Asclepius.  
  
Five of eight. It would not be enough to qualify.  
  
Tungsten tried not to let the disappointment show. There were bigger matters to worry about than his own failed aspirations. It wasn't entirely his fault, but that was small consolation.  
  
“Is something wrong?”  
  
He could only manage a halfhearted smile. “Just a brief bout of disappointment. I suddenly realized that I would never become a master.” His smile faded, hand dropping to the casting rod which was never gone from his reach, tucked into a side pocket in his robes. “Three of the deities I need are gone.”  
  
Christine's hand landed on his shoulder, giving him a comforting squeeze. “I'm sorry.” She even sounded like she meant it. “But perhaps all is not lost. The whole world is a balance, as I'm sure they taught you in your earlier studies. Lord Aesir won't let the imbalance stand.”  
  
Hm. She might have a point. It would be something Tungsten would bring up with Asclepius when his dear one returned. Or, her information lacking, Tungsten could ask Hephaestion. The elder deity was always willing to answering intelligent questions and encouraged higher learning.  
  
“Thank you,” Tungsten said, patting her on the hand with true gratitude. “You are right. I never even considered that.”  
  
Christine gave him another squeeze and then dropped her hand, returning her attention to their original task, feeding those who hadn't come to dinner. “Sometimes, you just need another perspective.”  
  
“How right you are.”  
  
“Where are you headed to after you're healed and rested?” Christine asked as she pulled out several trays.  
  
Tungsten frowned, setting cups, plates, and silverware onto the trays. “I'm honestly not sure. Alaris-san is usually the one to provide directions. Part of the reason we stopped here was to sit back and decide our next move.” He offered her a faint smile. “It's better for us to keep moving. Safer for others around us as well.”  
  
“I imagine so.” Christine busied herself by filling the plates on the trays with copious amounts of food. “Will you be staying long?”  
  
“A week. I think. That's what Alaris-san suggested a few days go.” Tungsten gave her a wry grin. “Though I can see Sleet-san whining for an earlier departure.”  
  
Christine chuckled, shaking her head. “I've never seen a child flee his home as quickly as Stewart. Why, he left home before his elder brothers and he did so in the middle of the night. Just packed a bag and poof, he was gone.”  
  
Tungsten's jaw dropped. “Did he even leave a note?”  
  
“No.” Christine sighed, clucking her tongue. “We thought he'd done another one of his disappearing acts and that he'd come back in a few days, moaning about being hungry and hating to sleep on the ground. But he didn't.”  
  
Tungsten couldn't imagine treating his parents like that. They'd helped pack his bags, had watched him go, and anxiously awaited each letter he carefully penned. Though, come to think of it, weeks had passed since his last one. They were probably worried. He'd better take the time now to compose something heartfelt and thoughtful. Though how to tell them what was going on without concerning them further would be an exercise in careful phrasing.  
  
“That was selfish of him,” Tungsten murmured without thinking. He winced, giving Christine an apologetic look. “I only meant that it would have been polite to at least leave a note.”  
  
Christine chuckled and patted Tungsten on the arm. “You were right the first time, dear. It was selfish.” She reached for one of the trays, balancing it carefully. “I'll take this one to Alaris and our patient. Will you take the other to... what was his name? The little blond?”  
  
Little blond? Tungsten had to choke back a laugh. “Beryl-san.”  
  
“Right. Beryl.” Christine nodded as though firmly planting the name in her mind. “I'll come back later for Raven's. Something tells me he needs special handling.”  
  
If only Sleet was this mischievously amusing. “You would be right. And I'm happy to help.”  
  
“Good.” Christine winked at him. “Remember. Top of the stairs, second door on the left.”  
  
Tungsten nodded, concentrating fully on balancing his own tray. He checked the length of his hem, determined not to trip and spill all of this food. It would be a waste.  
  
The door creaked as Christine left ahead of him. Tungsten made certain to take great care. It was nice to be useful for something. To be trusted. He often felt like baggage when it came to his traveling companions.  
  
He was invited only because of his link to Asclepius. It wasn't anything he, personally, had done, but because Aesir had given him this link. He had little magic, only two names engraved on his casting rod, and no fighting skills. And the magic the animum bond gave him was purely of a defensive nature. He couldn't cook or hunt, and though he could read a map, navigating remained Raven's forte.  
  
He didn't make a nuisance of himself like Sleet-san or encourage suspicion like Beryl-san. In fact, Tungsten felt a little bit like a piece of the background.  
  
He wasn't, however, going to feel sorry for himself. There were much bigger things at stake than his own feelings on the matter.  
  
He would simply have to learn more, get stronger, become more useful. If it took being the one in the background, silently supporting Alaris-san and helping her, than so be it.  
  
Resolve firm, Tungsten hefted his tray and left the kitchen. He would deliver this tray, check in on Alaris-san, and perhaps get some rest for himself. They had only a week before they'd be on the road again, searching out the last two animus and fending off Balaam. He would need all the rest he could get.  
  


  
***


	37. Interlude: Ashur

“It's starting to rain,” Ashur said.  
  
He stood at the window, blanket wrapped over his shoulders, staring out into a lightning-struck night, his own reflection staring back at him.  
  
“Yes,” Iblion replied. “I know.”  
  
Ashur lapsed into silence, though he didn't know which was worse. Iblion's distracted, short replies or the silence in his own head. He had only acknowledged Fafnir for a brief time, but he already missed the calm and knowledgeable voice.  
  
Or maybe it was that he was too used to Adair talking. Adair couldn't abide by silence, whether it was him reading aloud, or trying to bother Ashur when he was reading, or trying and failing to play their father's violin...  
  
No, Adair had abhorred quiet.  
  
Ashur dipped his head. His meal sat like a lead weight in his stomach, churning and churning, threatening to expel itself. It had been delicious, home cooking just like his parents before they had died, and Ashur had swallowed it down over the lump in his throat. It tasted like home, but home was ashes and blood now and worse because Adair was missing.  
  
Adair was gone and every day, that fact seemed to sink in little by little. Iblion had assured him that Adair was alive but after seeing what Balaam was capable of, doubt continued to trickle in. Balaam was a monster, along with the human he inhabited.  
  
Adair might be alive, but who knew what tortures he was enduring?  
  
Ashur turned away from the window, retreating to the seat by the crackling fire, the smell of cinnamon potpurri filling the den. It was very warm here, but all Ashur could feel was a chill, seeping to his very bones.  
  
That Iblion had the same, distracted look as he stared into the flames was of little comfort. In that moment, Ashur understood his twin's disdain of silence.  
  
He contemplated the stack of books Sleet's mother had left for him. They varied from encyclopedias to works of fiction. It was hard to picture the thief reading, Ashur mused. Sleet didn't seem the type to settle down quietly with a book.  
  
Then again, there was a lot about Sleet he didn't understand.  
  
Someone knocked on the open frame that divided the den from the kitchen. Ashur looked up, finding Alaris standing in the doorway, her forehead pinched.  
  
“Hephaestion had asked me to deliver a message,” Alaris said, directing her attention not to Ashur but to Iblion, who had risen to his feet. Though he had done so slowly, as though it had taken great effort.  
  
“He did not come himself?” Iblion asked, turned toward the priestess, confusion and apprehension writ into every tense line of his body.  
  
Alaris shook her head, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “He has already left. He told me to inform you that a Conclave had been called.”  
  
Iblion's head dipped, hands falling slack at his sides. “I see. Was there anything else?”  
  
“Merely a reiteration that you do not attempt to leave the mortal plane.” Alaris pressed her lips together in a thin line, her gaze wandering away as though carrying on an internal conversation. “He will tell you what happened when he returns.”  
  
Iblion's exhale was eerily loud in the den. “Very well.” He turned away from Alaris, his face a mask of composure but Ashur wasn't so blind as to think Iblion wasn't pained beneath the surface. “Thank you for telling me.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
Ashur expected Alaris to leave, but she didn't. Instead, she lingered in the frame, watching Iblion as he took his chair, ignoring Ashur altogether.  
  
“Hephaestion wouldn't tell me what matter the Conclave wished to discuss,” Alaris said. “I gathered it was in relation to current events. Care to share?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Iblion's response was flat, uninterested, and final.  
  
Alaris sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I thought not.” She turned away from the doorway, irritation practically a visible aura around her.  
  
She left them alone as abruptly as she had arrived, no doubt to head upstairs and check on her two patients, Malach in worse state than Raven. The mercenary was irritable and uncomfortable, but would live. It was Malach that worried all of them. His wounds were grave, though Heimdal had looked optimistic.  
  
Ashur shifted his attention to his twin's anima. Iblion had returned to his contemplation of the fire, knuckles pressed to his mouth, elbow on the arm of the chair. His gaze was distant.  
  
“Is it still uncomfortable?” Ashur found himself blurting, if only to fill the silence. It pressed all around him, ringing in his ears, and he didn't want to sink back into himself.  
  
Iblion blinked, forehead furrowing. “Uncomfortable?”  
  
“Staying here. On the mortal plane,” Ashur clarified.  
  
Iblion inhaled and exhaled, his expression pinched. “It gets worse with time. And yet, better.” His face contorted with irritation. “It would be impossible to explain to a mortal.”  
  
Somehow, that felt like an insult, though Ashur couldn't explain why. Perhaps Iblion loathed remaining on this plane, resigned to Ashur's presence as a half-balm to the discomfort.  
  
“What did you do?” Ashur asked, groping for something else to fill the silence. Anything really. “I mean, do deities have jobs?” He'd read fiction and false accounts and the theories of scholars about the gods no one really believed existed but it would be nice to get some truth.  
  
Iblion rolled his shoulders, his face one of a person resigned to his fate. Or the conversation. “Some of us do. As one of the few gods that the mages recognize, part of my duty was to approve or disapprove their petitions for my element.”  
  
“That's it?” It sounded terribly boring.  
  
“I have other duties.” Iblion shifted in the chair, giving Ashur his full attention. His gaze was much clearer, in the present than whatever otherworldly place it had been before. “Maintaining the seasons, for one. Controlling the weather, for another, though that was a dual-ownership with Sybaris.” His fingers drummed on the arm of the chair. “There will be droughts now.”  
  
Ashur tilted his head. “Droughts?”  
  
Oh, wait. Sybaris was the blood of Lieve, according to legend. Her element was water, the master of the rivers and oceans and rains.  
  
Iblion sighed. “There's only so much command of the weather I have without her balance to steady me. Selene and Raijin's assistance can only go so far.”  
  
Neither were names known to Ashur. He nibbled his bottom lip, trying to remember all of the mythology texts he'd read as a child. Selene was vaguely familiar. A name for one of the moons, perhaps.  
  
“Will you tell me about them?” Ashur asked, and pulled the blanket tighter over his shoulders. It was nice to be warm after the past week of cold and miserable riding. “All of the other deities.”  
  
“All of them?” Iblion arched a brow. “Just how many do you think there are?”  
  
“A dozen?”  
  
Iblion barked a laugh, amusement replacing some of his earlier depression. “Try a couple hundred.”  
  
Ashur boggled. “The oldest mythologies I've read describe fifty at most. And some of them I thought were repetitions, or renames.”  
  
“Humans have made a habit of forgetting us.” Iblion frowned and slunk deeper in his chair, though it seemed more an effort to get comfortable. “We are many. We have a hierarchy and families. Some are more powerful than others. Some have been so forgotten they have power in name only. And yes, there have been a few renames over the centuries.”  
  
The books had said nothing of this. “Family?”  
  
Iblion nodded, fingers drumming the arm of the chair again. “Asclepius is my niece. Erebus is my cousin.” He paused, drawing in a sharp breath. “Fafnir was my father.”  
  
That hit like a punch to the gut. Ashur was left speechless. It wasn't just Adair's loss bothering Iblion. Or the fact that he couldn't return home. But he had been there, had probably witnessed Balaam killing his father. How terrible.  
  
In this, at least, Ashur could understand. He remembered his parents, his father's voice, the warmth of his father's embrace.  
  
“I'm sorry,” he said, and he meant it. “I know what that's like. I didn't even realize...” He trailed off. Words seemed pale and inappropriate.  
  
“It's not your fault. We knew the dangers when we chose to fight,” Iblion replied and he pressed his knuckles to his lips, leaning against his braced arm. “Father accepted the risk. And he truly enjoyed knowing you, for however short a time.”  
  
Silence fell, heavy and broken. Iblion's gaze dropped and Ashur found studying the fire to be fascinating. He should have never asked anything.  
  
“It's really coming down out there!”  
  
Ashur startled, head whipping toward the doorway to find Sleet's father coming into the den, burdened with an armload of firewood. He was damp from head to toe, the ends of his coat dripping trickles of water to the floor.  
  
“From the look of it, there won't be a stop any time soon,” Mr. Upton continued, striding boldly into the room, heedless of the tension. Or perhaps in spite of it. He dumped his armload into a metal basket near the hearth. “You folks made it to shelter just in time.”  
  
“So it would seem we did,” Iblion responded, and his tone was polite but flat. Disinterested.  
  
Ashur blinked, a burst of realization striking him. Iblion controlled the weather. Could this outright downpour be a reflection of the deity's turmoil? It had been near-unbearable this past week, between the rain and the snow.  
  
It wouldn't be appropriate to ask, but Ashur longed to know. Perhaps he would be safer asking Hephaestion when the other deities returned from their Conclave.  
  
“Feel free to add more wood if you get cold,” Sleet's father continued, bustling around the room and straightening up things. He drew the curtains as well. “Make yourself at home here. The wife and I've lived alone for the past couple years so it's nice to have some company.”  
  
“We appreciate your hospitality,” Ashur said, giving the man a soft smile.  
  
Mr. Upton waved them off. “It's just something we folks do out here. When you live in a tiny town like this, people look out for each other.”  
  
“It's good to know that type of common decency still exists on this plane,” Iblion said, and there was something odd to his tone.  
  
Mr. Upton gave the deity a confused look, but seemed to dismiss it just as quickly. “More than you'd expect. Have a good night, boys.”  
  
He left as abruptly as he'd arrived with a candid little wave.  
  
Ashur blinked. Sleet's parents continued to confuse him. They were kind and giving people, nothing at all like their son. Clearly, something had gone awry in Sleet's life. How could he turn out so different?  
  
“Ashur.”  
  
He directed his attention back to Iblion, whose own expression had shifted to something Ashur couldn't identify. “Yes?”  
  
The deity leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, looking smaller somehow now that he wasn't bristling with weaponry. “I don't think any of you really understand how dangerous this is. Lord Aesir didn't give you a choice in the bond, but he didn't prepare you either.”  
  
Ashur nibbled on his bottom lip. “I was there,” he said, trying not to think of Nename and Adair and the massive explosions and the yawing emptiness within him. “I saw what Balaam was capable of.”  
  
Iblion shook his head, the dark lines on his face cast into shadow. “That was not even a fraction of Balaam's full power. With all that he's absorbed, I'm not even sure we are capable of defeating him and certainly not as we are.”  
  
Fear, despite his best effort, gripped Ashur. “What do you mean?”  
  
Iblion's gaze wandered away, but his expression focused. “He's absorbed the elements and powers of seven deities. Including his own, that means he outnumbers us. Worse, all of his capabilities are offensive, save one. By sheer numbers, power, and ability, we are outmatched.”  
  
Ashur clutched his blanket closer. “If you were trying to scare me, you're succeeding.”  
  
“I only meant to enlighten.” Iblion sat back, fingers rapping over the arms of the chair in a fit of nervous energy. “I don't know why I'm capable of remaining when Adair is not present, but I'll take it for the opportunity it is. If the rest of us hope to survive, hope for victory, we have to change our tactics.”  
  
“Shouldn't you be discussing this with Alaris and Hephaestion?”  
  
“I will. But while they concern themselves with the team as a whole, I have another duty to attend.” His gaze swung back to Ashur and now it was full of calculating intent. “My father gave his life to protect yours and this world. I dishonor him by allowing your ignorance to continue.”  
  
“My... I'm not an idiot!” Ashur snapped, indignation coiling inside of him.  
  
Iblion's eyebrow twitched. “I wasn't talking about your intelligence. You are woefully inadequate when it comes to physical matters. Don't lie and tell me otherwise.”  
  
Ashur's mouth clamped shut. Iblion was right, of course. Of them, Adair was more interested in physical endeavors. He played sports with other boys their age, and had taken lessons from one of the retired martial artists living in Nename. Ashur hadn't bothered.  
  
He had no talent with any weapons nor did he have any inkling of becoming a mage. He was intelligent, but the mental discipline eluded him. Without Fafnir, Ashur didn't have the magical backup that might make up for all of his other weaknesses.  
  
He was a liability. Ashur knew it. Raven knew it. Alaris knew it.  
  
“But we can start to change that, if you'll agree,” Iblion continued when Ashur's silence proved his understanding. “I can teach you. I can train you. If not just to help save the world, but to better protect yourself. At this point, we can't afford any more losses.”  
  
“I agree,” Ashur said, heart pounding in his chest. He wasn't looking forward to the physical exertion, but for the chance to defend himself, it would be worth it. He didn't want to be the weakest link anymore. “I'll learn. Whatever you'll teach me.”  
  
“It won't be easy,” Iblion cautioned.  
  
“I'm young,” Ashur countered. Besides, it would give him something to focus on, somewhere to direct his energy, rather than constantly worrying about Adair. If he were stronger, if he were skilled, maybe he could find his brother and rescue him. Maybe he could stop something like Nename from ever happening again.  
  
Iblion nodded slowly. “Good. Then as soon as the storm passes, we'll begin. The sooner, the better. Have you any thought on which weapon you'd prefer?”  
  
Ashur shook his head. “I've never wanted to wield a weapon in my life.” Raven's large sword intimidated him. Iblion's axes seemed too unwieldy.  
  
“We don't have time to build up your upper body strength. I'll start with hand to hand combat, perhaps a dagger to augment that.” Iblion rose to his feet, gaze passing critically over Ashur's wiry frame. “A short sword might suit. Or perhaps a glaive. Are you a decent marksmen?”  
  
“I wouldn't know.”  
  
“Then we'll test that as well.” Iblion walked to the bookcase, perusing what the Uptons had for reading selection. “You'll find something that suits you best, I'm sure.” He pulled down a slim book, flipped it open and then snapped it shut. “Look through this.”  
  
He tossed the book Ashur's direction and he caught it without any embarrassing fumble. Thank, Aesir. Bad enough that Iblion looked at him as some sort of fledgling.  
  
Ashur turned the cover, reading the title page. It was a compendium of fictional stories, fairy tales if you would. “Why?”  
  
“To help you find something you might like. You learn better if it interests you,” Iblion said, and strode back to the bookcase, scanning the spines.  
  
Ashur tilted his head. “But these are fiction.”  
  
“That doesn't mean that once upon a time, they weren't real.”  
  
He squinted at the deity. “What is that supposed to mean?”  
  
Iblion half-turned, giving Ashur a long look. “According to popular thought now, I don't exist. And yet, here I am. Who is to say that those fictional tales aren't made of the same?”  
  
Ashur blinked. Iblion was right, of course.  
  
His eyes fell to the table of contents, a list of all fifteen short stories of myth and legend within. How much of this was truly fiction? How much of this was forgotten fact?  
  
Interest spawned anew. Ashur had always been more partial to realism. He preferred books that taught, gave him information. He enjoyed studying. He disdained fiction.  
  
But what could be buried in these stories of demons and gods and fae creatures? What truths lay within them? What if, and here he dared be optimistic, what if there was some tale that could help them understand their current circumstances?  
  
Every deity had mentioned on at least one occasion that this was not the first time Balaam had attempted to claim Lieve for his own. They were mum as to why and what happened back then, a thousand years ago if Ashur believed him. Whether they were silent out of shame or some in-built need to keep it a secret, Ashur didn't know. Perhaps these fictional tales had the answers.  
  
Ashur would read them. And then he would train. He would make himself useful. He would rise above his current weakness.  
  
He would find his brother. He would help defeat Balaam.  
  
Whatever it took.  
  


  
****


	38. Interlude: Beryl

Beryl didn't know which was more ridiculous: that this quaint farmhouse was Sleet's childhood home or that someone like Sleet could be worthy of Frayr's attention.  
  
This was pathetic.  
  
He poked around Sleet's – Stewart's – once upon a time bedroom finding nothing of note or interest.  
  
Apparently, Sleet had been a boring brat with as little ambition as a child as he displayed as an adult. Beryl searched for something, anything that could explain Frayr's fascination.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Sleet Underwood was as shallow, uninspired, and untalented as Beryl expected him to be. It was more than disappointing. It was sad.  
  
A disgusted sigh escaped Beryl. He threw himself backward on the obscenely comfortable bed, covers rumpled and giving off the stale odor of fabric that had lain unused for quite some time.  
  
Compared to Beryl's upbringing, Sleet had lived a charmed life. He'd become a thief for lack of ambition, not to survive. He had no idea what it meant to suffer, to survive. He didn't and would never understand sacrifice. Or the choices a kid would make when it came down to a crossroad between debilitating hunger and worthless pride.  
  
Sleet would have never survived the streets Beryl called home. That gang of abandoned and forgotten kids would eat him up alive, spit out those scrawny bones like pits from a cherry.  
  
Geryon would have hated Sleet. He would have laughed at the amateur thief, sent him back to the bottom.  
  
Beryl was loyal to Frayr. As loyal as he had been to Geryon.  
  
But he couldn't deny that his Lord was out of his fucking mind.  
  
“ _Bring him back_ ,” Merith had said with a fierce glower and a bony finger prodding Beryl in the ribs. “ _Or don't bother coming back_.”  
  
Beryl rubbed his face.  
  
Discipline and order were tenuous at best in Kurnugia. With its lord missing in action, and several candidates eager to claim the seat, everything had fallen to ruin. Worse now that demons ravaged the land and simple citizens were resorting to petty theft.  
  
The Guilds fought among themselves. Guards weren't honoring their commitments, won by bribes. Factions squabbled for rights to leadership, with Riordan's the worst of them.  
  
Kurnugia was rapidly becoming nothing better than society's collective den of iniquity. It was disappointing. It was infuriating. It was everything Beryl had been working toward his entire life collapsing around him.  
  
It was all Sleet's fault.  
  
If he hadn't found that damned jewel, hadn't released whatever thing had possessed Frayr, none of this would have happened.  
  
Beryl grit his teeth.  
  
Pathetic.  
  
There was no other word to describe his situation.  
  
He was stuck hovering over Sleet for the slightest chance of finding Frayr. This was so fucked up he didn't have words to describe it. There was no precedence for this situation at all.  
  
 _“Where are you going?”  
  
Frayr smirked, pulling on a pair of supple leather gloves, flexing his fingers for the perfect fit. “Since when has it been your right to question me?”  
  
Beryl leaned against the frame, crossing his arms over his chest. “Since Wyeth named me his successor.”  
  
Amusement flickered across Frayr's face. He turned away from Beryl, rummaging through his waistband of small pouches, cataloging their contents. “I see. Remind me to speak with him later.”  
  
That Frayr didn't like Wyeth was no secret. Beryl suspected that the advisor would soon find his way to an untimely demise. Which meant that if Beryl wanted to keep his life, he'd better make himself useful to Frayr, lest he find his own fate to be the same.  
  
His eyes narrowed.  
  
“You're going to Tawnry,” he said, and sadly, it hadn't been a guess. There was only one reason Frayr left Kurnugia as of late, and it wasn't in search of some rare artifact. Not since the cup of Jamshid had he bothered with such ventures.  
  
Frayr's shoulders tightened, the only visible sign of his growing irritation. “Ah. So you already knew my destination. Your question earlier must have been rhetorical.”  
  
A frustrated huff escaped Beryl before he could stop it. “This is beyond entertainment, Frayr.”  
  
His leader turned, a sharp glint in his eyes. “He's enticing.”  
  
“He's a distraction,” Beryl bit out, an edge of insubordination curling around the last syllables of his response.  
  
Frayr inclined his head and turned to face Beryl fully. He approached, stalking forward like some sleek cat with an eye on a trapped mouse.  
  
“Jealousy becomes you,” Frayr said, coming to a stop just in front of Beryl. He reached up, gloved hand gripping Beryl's chin and tilting his head left and right. “Though I would take care. Protest too loud and it can become equally distasteful.”  
  
Beryl sneered. “I am not jealous.”  
  
“So you say.” Frayr's lips tilted toward a smile and he leaned down, bridging the distance between their heights, lips brushing against Beryl's. “But you reek of envy,” he breathed.  
  
Heat pooled through Beryl's veins, that low voice echoing in his ears. He shuddered, struggling to maintain his composure. Damn Frayr to Tartarus!  
  
Frayr chuckled lowly, lips brushing over Beryl's cheek, traveling a teasing path to his ear, curling around the shell of it. “Remain here. Keep Riordan in line. You can do that, can't you?”  
  
“Of course I can,” Beryl muttered, fingers locking around his arms, gripping tight if only to keep himself from grabbing Frary and convincing him to stay with every skill in his arsenal.  
  
“Good.” Frayr nipped at his ear before drawing back, finger stroking one last time over Beryl's cheek. “I should return in a month. Perhaps less.”  
  
“I'll hold you to that.”  
  
Frayr's lips curled with amusement._  
  
Beryl threw himself off the bed, too restless to sleep, and unwilling to go downstairs.  
  
At the time, Frayr hadn't returned when he said he would. Riordan became loud, proclaiming his intents to sue for leadership, and Beryl had been forced to track Frayr down. He hadn't needed to look hard.  
  
Frayr was where he said he would be, in Tawnry, dicking around with Sleet. He'd let himself be distracted by the amateur thief, though he wouldn't admit as much. He claimed to have some sort of plan, that Sleet served a purpose.  
  
Beryl didn't believe him. But he was loyal and so he did as Frayr asked. He returned to Kurnugia to keep an eye things, an advisor turned interim ruler. Riordan didn't like it, but Beryl as Frayr's proxy had more supporters than Riordan had managed to gather.  
  
The crisis, as they said, was averted for now.  
  
Except... Frayr never returned.  
  
Beryl gave him a month, two months, half a year. He waited, and still no sign of their leader. And then the rumors started to filter in. Rumors of towns decimated by hordes of unworldly beasts. One man had gibbered about seeing a man in the midst of debris, whose description matched Frayr's with eerie exactness.  
  
It was all the push Riordan needed to push another bid for leadership into the ears of the wobbling supporters. Frayr had been gone for too long. It seemed he had abandoned them. Perhaps, many whispered, Geryon's faith in his protege had been unfounded.  
  
Merith had been the one, at last, to admit that something had to be done. He had urged Beryl to go after Frayr, while Kurnugia threatened to degenerate all around them. Beryl had done as asked because he'd seen no other option.  
  
He knew exactly where to start: Tawnry.  
  
By the time he arrived, however, the small town was a smoking pit, bodies lying in the streets and the buildings gutted by fire. A few demonic corpses littered the ground, stinking like brimstone in the hot sun. No one living had stuck around.  
  
Beryl consulted a map. Rumors of the demonic invaders had pointed out several key locations, which he marked with streaks of charcoal. There seemed to be a line, a direction, and he traced it all the way to Gwartney.  
  
He tracked Sleet's little group all over Corynth, picking up rumor and truth in the wake of their visits, from small town to enormous city. They tended to leave destruction behind them, piles of corpses and angry citizens. The huge crater in Brulee had left Beryl shivering in something he refused to name fear.  
  
It had been sheer luck that enabled him to catch up to them in Nename. He had missed Frayr's grand entrance, but Beryl knew it was only a matter of time.  
  
Sleet was Frayr's obsession. Beryl might not understand it, but he recognized that truth. Frayr would seek out Sleet, again and again, even if it wasn't to kill the little bastard. There would come a time when Sleet would have to make a choice. Beryl could see it and if he did, surely Alaris and her pet mercenary could as well.  
  
Sleet was far more of a liability than Beryl himself could ever be.  
  
Beryl stalked over to the window, peeling back the curtains. Outside, a storm was brewing, darkness descending on Toran with more swiftness than Beryl anticipated. Perhaps it was due to how far north they were. Beryl wasn't sure. He hadn't been this far north before.  
  
Lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled. Fantastic. A storm.  
  
Frowning, Beryl turned away from the window, just as rain began to fall and lightning flashed again. Wait.  
  
He whirled back toward the window, peering into the night. He had seen something. A person maybe, standing out in the field behind the house. There was a pasture there, several livestock milling about the grass. Perhaps Sleet's father had gone out there to herd the cows into the barn for the evening.  
  
No.  
  
The lightning flashed again and Beryl stiffened. That was not Sleet's father. He had only gotten a glimpse but Beryl knew that face, that smirk.  
  
 _Frayr._  
  
He whirled, intending to chase down his errant leader even if it meant plunging into an epic thunderstorm. The lantern in Sleet's bedroom flickered and Beryl startled as the air in front of the door rippled. He drew to a halt, heart pounding in his chest, as a pool of darkness on the wooden floor writhed as though alive.  
  
Streams of dark wound upward, like ribbons of night. Beryl backed up a pace, nearly knocking over a nightstand, as the blackness crept higher and higher, until it stood higher than him. It spiraled inward, wrapping around itself, and the lantern in the room dimmed to a flicker.  
  
Beryl should have run when he had the chance.  
  
A familiar chuckle spilled into the room. “I never took you for such a coward.”  
  
His breath caught in his throat, jaw dropping as the shadows coalesced and then shattered, revealing a man. None other than Frayr himself.  
  
“You...” Beryl lacked words, anger and exasperation and relief smacking into him all at once. “How did you do that?”  
  
Frayr smirked, flicking fingers through his hair. “Have your new allies told you nothing?”  
  
Beryl scowled, drawing himself up straight. “They aren't my allies.” He stalked across the floor, getting closer to Frayr, only to hesitate once within reaching distance. There was something off, about his leader. “I take it your link to some god is the reason why?”  
  
“Among other things.” Frayr made up for Beryl's indecision, closing the last few steps, one hand lifting to grip Beryl's chin, as he seemed so fond of doing. “I must admit. I never thought I'd see the day you and Sleet would join hands.”  
  
Slapping Frayr's hand away, Beryl sidestepped the older man. “It's not like that. I'm only with him because I'm looking for you.”  
  
Frayr laughed, hand falling back to his side. “Looking for me? I didn't realize I was missing.” His eyes flashed.  
  
Beryl's insides quivered. No, Frayr wasn't acting very Frayr-like at all. And he smelled different, like fresh hay and sulphur and... sex?  
  
Beryl's eyes narrowed. “You reek of sex. You've been with Sleet already, haven't you?”  
  
“Why were you looking for me, Beryl?” Frayr asked, neatly sidestepping the question and all but confirming it.  
  
Frustration gnawed at Beryl's insides. “I should think that's obvious,” he snapped. “Riordan's getting mouthy and there's only so much I can do. They don't want a figurehead. They want you.”  
  
Frayr's arms folded across his chest. “No.”  
  
That was it? A monosyllabic answer and Beryl should just accept it?  
  
His hands formed fists at his side. “You're going to throw it away. Throw us away,” Beryl said, words sharp and caught in his throat. “Why?”  
  
“Because I've found something worth my time.” Frayr's gaze wandered past him, oddly unfocused, as though he was seeing something that wasn't there. “I've moved beyond a false monarchy.”  
  
“False...?” Beryl scowled, stomping across the floor. “You bastard. People have been killing each other over that false monarchy. I've been stabbed three times!”  
  
Frayr inclined his head. “And yet, you live. Either those assassins are inept or you are lucky. You should be grateful.”  
  
Anger thrashed inside of Beryl like a wild beast. “What in Corynth could be so valuable?”  
  
Brown eyes glittered and Frayr leaned forward, at the waist, until their faces were on even keel. “Freedom,” he murmured in a voice that was very unFrayr-like. “Not that a pathetic insect like you would understand.”  
  
Beryl jerked back.  
  
Frayr smirked and straightened again, the strange glint in his eyes beginning to fade. “You want me to return to Kurnugia?”  
  
“That was the idea,” Beryl replied, cautious now. Uncertainty wriggled its way through the annoyance and he was beginning to see what had Alaris and her people so concerned.  
  
“Then you have to do something for me.” Frayr paced across the floor, a slow, measured stride that was more contemplative than full of intent. His gaze wandered around the room, taking in the walls, the trappings of a much younger man.  
  
“What?”  
  
Frayr smiled, but it lacked humor or sweetness. “Bring me Sleet.”  
  
A growl rose up in Beryl's throat before he could stop it. He should have fucking known. “And how do you propose I do that?”  
  
“That's not my problem. It's yours.” Frayr stopped right beside him, tilting his head down to speak directly into Beryl's ear. “Get creative.”  
  
Beryl folded his arms, feeling an unnatural chill dance down his spine. “And if I can't?”  
  
“I suspect you'll die trying.” A dark chuckle rolled out of Frayr's mouth. “Or, proving you survive, you can watch Riordan destroy Kurnugia.”  
  
Beryl's mouth flattened. “Why?”  
  
He felt a hand stroke down his side, a light touch against his tunic. “You are the one who wants me to return.”  
  
“No.” He turned his head, meeting Frayr's gaze. “Why Sleet?”  
  
“Ever the jealous one.” Frayr's eyes got another glazed look to them. “It's complicated. I can't kill him. So I have to have him alive.”  
  
Another chill danced down Beryl's spine. “Then just take him. Can't be that hard.”  
  
The hand slid around to his back, dangerously like a lover's caress. But with Frayr, love had never been an option. Nor tenderness. He used seduction like a weapon, toyed with affection to turn it against Beryl and anyone else who served under him. He could not be distracted by affairs of the heart. It was one reason it made him such a damn good leader.  
  
Until Sleet came along.  
  
Beryl gritted his teeth.  
  
“No,” Frayr purred, fingers dancing a familiar line at the boundary line of tunic and breeches. “It must be willingly or it won't matter at all.”  
  
Manipulative bastard. Beryl's teeth ground together so hard he swore he heard them shriek. He began to wonder if there was anything left of Frayr in there, or if that demi-deity, that Balaam had hollowed him out.  
  
Though he doubted Balaam cared one whit whether Sleet lived or died.  
  
Disgust churned with frustration. It always came back to Sleet, didn't it?  
  
“Fine,” Beryl spat, insides a roiling mass of confusion and hatred. “I'll see what I can do. But I'm not making any promises.”  
  
A warm finger dragged horizontally across his back, making his skin prickle. “That will suffice for now.” Frayr leaned in closer, exhaling warm over Beryl's ear. “Your belligerence is far more intoxicating. Too bad my other can't see it as I do.”  
  
And that confirmed it. Beryl wasn't sure if he should be disgusted or flattered. This was Balaam in Frayr's body, for the most part.  
  
“What do you want me to do with him once I have him?” Beryl demanded, if only to get this conversation over as soon as possible.  
  
Frayr chuckled and drew back, at last removing his hand from Beryl. “I'll find you,” he said. “Time is of the essence here. The sooner you get this done, the longer you'll live.”  
  
Beryl frowned. “Why? What's coming?”  
  
The lanterns in the room flickered. Something prickled in the air, making the hair on Beryl's skin rise. He turned to look at Frayr, finding the writhing shadows rising up from the ground, slowly climbing up Frayr's body.  
  
“That's no concern of yours,” Frayr said, and his brown eyes darkened to an eerie black, gleaming like onyx. “Bring me Sleet, Beryl.”  
  
Shadows rustled and clung to Frayr like a living entity. He smirked, but it was soon buried behind the black. The wood floor seemed to give a little toss. The lanterns flared bright, and then the mass of darkness collapsed. It formed a pool on the floor that shrunk into itself, like a puddle of water evaporating in the midday sun.  
  
Frayr was gone. It was hard to believe he'd been there at all.  
  
Beryl let out a long breath and tried to shake off the eerie sensation that clung to him like wet clothing on a humid day. He was in way over his head. He should have told Morwen to stuff it. He should have ran out of Kurnugia and never looked back when he had to chance.  
  
Someone knocked on the door.  
  
Beryl, to his embarrassment, startled, a knife leaping into his hand as he whirled toward the door, poised to strike.  
  
“Sleet-san?” came a rather timid inquiry and a softer knock. “Beryl-san?”  
  
The mage.  
  
Beryl heaved a sigh, spinning the knife and sliding it back into the sheath strapped to his thigh. He muttered under his breath and crossed the room, pulling open the door.  
  
“Can I help you?” he near-snarled.  
  
Tungsten blinked, one hand lifted as though to knock again, the other balancing a tray of food with increasingly less skill. Beryl liberated him of the tray before he made a mess on the floor. He knew how clumsy Tungsten could be.  
  
“I brought dinner,” Tungsten said with a cheeriness that had to be forced. No one was that happy all the time. “Since you missed it.”  
  
He leaned into the room, peering around at the shadows before stepping fully inside. “Where's Sleet-san?”  
  
“Who cares?” Beryl snorted and sat down on the bed, curling his legs under him. He set down the tray, marveling at the offerings. It looked delicious. “He stormed out hours ago. Said something about the barn.”  
  
Tungsten glanced at the window, where the wind raged and tossed rain at the panes. “In that?” He frowned, looking – of all things – worried about the brat.  
  
“That would be my assumption.” Beryl snagged a thick chunk of bread and bit into it. Yum. Mrs. Upton had added some cinnamon to the dough.  
  
Tungsten sighed and turned back toward Beryl. “I suppose he'll come back inside if he gets hungry.” He tilted his head, green eyes unexpectedly sharp. “Did something happen between you?”  
  
Beryl wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What makes you say that?”  
  
“An educated guess?” Tungsten tried, only to shake his head, offering a thin smile. “It feels... odd in here.” He lifted a hand, twining his fingers through thin air. “Charged, like magic.”  
  
Beryl coughed, choking on the thick swallow of bread he'd been attempting to consume. Could the bumbling mage tell that Frayr had been present?  
  
“Really?” he asked, grabbing the cup of water to wash down the food. “I hadn't noticed.”  
  
“I suppose you wouldn't.” Tungsten developed another frown, turning in a slow circle as he looked around the room.  
  
Beryl set down the cup with an audible clack on the tray. “Are you looking for something?”  
  
Tungsten rubbed his forehead, smearing some of the thinner lines of paint. “No,” he said, but he sounded distracted. “I just... you really can't feel that?”  
  
He stuffed a bite of roast meat into his mouth to keep from answering the dumb question. He arched a brow, giving Tungsten a look without words.  
  
The mage dropped his hand. “Very well. I can take a hint. I'll leave you alone.” He headed for the door, robes swishing across the floor. “If you don't come downstairs, at least leave your dishes outside the door.”  
  
“Yes, sir.” Beryl tossed him a mock salute.  
  
Looking vaguely pained, Tungsten audibly exhaled and slipped out the door, sliding it shut behind him. Apparently, he had appointed himself Mrs. Upton's extra pair of hands. More power to him.  
  
He would have to be watched, Beryl realized as he stuffed more food into his mouth, oddly hungry. Tungsten came off as a dim torch, but there was more going on beneath that mop of red hair than it seemed. He was suspicious and that meant Beryl needed to be suspicious, too. If only to watch his own back.  
  
He had to remind himself that he was surrounded by enemies here. They were not his friends or his allies. He was an outsider. They were under no obligation to protect him.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Beryl breathed hard through his nose. He would have to convince Sleet to leave with him, or go with Frayr. Either way, Beryl would have to do it. He didn't have any other options.  
  
Damn but his life had suddenly gotten a lot more complicated.  
  
  
****  
  



	39. Interlude: The Conclave

Elysium.  
  
Realm of the immortals. Home to the gods, the demi-deities, and the nexus cord of Lieve's magic.  
  
It existed on an immaterial plane, a nether realm between the mortal world and the cosmic demesne. It could only be accessed by a gate which few mortals had the magical skill to open. Animum-bonded deities were gifted with an internal access, a slim thread connecting their essence to their somatic form.  
  
It was why the deities needed the Animum-bond to materialize on Lieve. Without the physical bond to ground them, tether them to the mortal realm, the deities would lose their link to their somatic form and in turn, forget the way to Elysium.  
  
Only one deity had ever tried such a thing. No one remembered his name anymore. Or his station. He had become mortal, lost his magic, doomed to finish the rest of his now finite lifespan as a human.  
  
Legend had it that his descendants were the first of the mages, eons upon eons ago. Such was a story forgotten by the humans and reduced to myth by the gods. It was one of many wild and winsome tales that Erebus' mother had given him over his long, extended maturing. It had taken him centuries to grow into his full power after all.  
  
Elysium, in all its glory, was home to Erebus. Though Tartarus was his personal domain, his quarters, by and large, Elysium remained his home. Tartarus could only be accessed through Elysium, and like most of the deities, Erebus' quarters were off-shoot from Elysium's main thoroughfare.  
  
Erebus had always thought of Elysium like a wheel, many spokes going in all directions around a central hub. The spokes were the personal homes of the deities, given many names remembered and forgotten alike by the mortals. The hub was Aaru Field, a ring of buildings encircling a courtyard where the deities convened for the rare Conclaves. Magic pulsed the strongest in the pool of Tian, the central-most item in Aaru Field.  
  
Legend had it that Tian was a portal to the Creator, a land far beyond the reaches of their magic. The pool itself was dark and opalescent, though liquid pulled from it became clear and pristine. Even Sarek with his far-seeing eye could not discern a bed to the pools and no one dared swim or dive into the onyx spill. Touching it made a deity weak and numb, ill at the very least.  
  
Following the tether that brought him home, Erebus stepped out of the portal overlooking Aaru Field and breathed deeply of Elysium. The air here felt much heavier than that in the mortal world, known to the immortals as Nysa. Erebus attributed that weight to the magic that crawled over everything in Elysium. Nearly everything here was composed of semi-substantial threads of light and power. Elysium was only as real as the deities inhabiting it.  
  
Erebus winced.  
  
Elysium was also bright, eternally lit by an ever-shining sun that never waned and never set. Night did not exist in Elysium. Neither did thunderstorms or snow. Occasionally, when Raijin felt like being mischievous, they had light rain, like a summer shower down on Nysa. But otherwise, the weather was perfect.  
  
He instantly longed for the dark, damp of Tartarus. It suited his disposition much better than the brightness of Elysium.  
  
“Erebus!”  
  
And then there were others who were more than suited to Elysium.  
  
He had only a second to brace himself before he was attacked by a giggling mass of arms and legs that wrapped around his body in a semblance of an embrace. Warm curves and soft angles smelled like cinnamon and sunshine and kisses peppered his neck and face.  
  
“You have no dignity,” Erebus sighed, but he returned the embrace nonetheless. It had been some time since he'd held his promised.  
  
Asclepius laughed and looked up at him with sparkling ruby eyes. “And you have no sense of fun,” she retorted, and bounced up to steal a kiss from his lips. “It's been ages. Didn't you miss me?”  
  
“I saw you nearly every day.”  
  
“Not the same thing.” She squeezed him tightly before releasing him to a more dignified stance. “I think your animus is rubbing off on you.”  
  
“I have always been this way.”  
  
She rolled her eyes. “Good point. And Sleet actually has a sense of humor.” Asclepius tilted her head, lips curling with mischief. “You're more like Raven.”  
  
Erebus swatted at her, but Asclepius danced out of the way with a hyper-motion, another move in the endless game they played. “You are incorrigible.”  
  
“But isn't that why you love me?” She stuck her tongue out at him.  
  
Sometimes, Erebus thought, it was good to be home, despite the heat that tugged and roared at his layers of black clothing. He concentrated and made the outermost robes disappear, leaving him clad in a thin robe. Much better.  
  
Asclepius, wearing her usual gauzy strips of brightly-colored fabric, wasn't suffering from the tropical warmth of Elysium. Why would she be? Her home was an equatorial paradise, lush with palm trees and sand, a hammock swaying in the breeze, and trees bearing fruit year-round.  
  
She bounced back to his side, hooking her arm in his and dragging him down the steps toward Aaru Field.  
  
“Mother's the one who called the Conclave, you know,” Asclepius said, her tone losing some of its cheerful chirp.  
  
Erebus' gaze shifted to the skies above Aaru Field. There were six portals to the mortal realm, all perched above translucent stairs that spun down toward the central hub at Tian. He could see, now, the other animum-bound deities arriving.  
  
“Her timing leaves a little to be desired,” Erebus replied, and reminded himself to sound neutral. He might not like Raidne, disapproving of her parenting methods, but Asclepius loved her mother. It was not his place to drive a wedge between them. “Why is she presiding?”  
  
Asclepius' happy bounce slowed to a more professional stride. “Suzaku turned it down, claiming she wanted no part in this, and Heimdal abstained.”  
  
Erebus frowned.  
  
This was what Balaam had done to them.  
  
Years earlier, the honor of leading the deities would have belonged to one of the first four – Seiryu or Tiamat or Gilgamesh or Sybaris. They were all of them gone, defeated by Balaam, their essence absorbed or dispersed. Following after them in rank were the second phase deities, given life by Asherah, who were Heimdal, Ma'at, Suzaku, and the twins, Helios and Hekate.  
  
Ma'at had always been a neutral entity, her duty simply to observe and record, never participate. The Twins were incorporeal deities who resided in the sky, existing on both the mortal and immortal planes, and were ineligible to preside. Suzaku only held a semi-physical form, but could materialize herself when she needed. That she had abstained came as no surprise to Erebus. Suzaku cared more for the mortal world than the affairs of Elysium.  
  
“Why did Heimdal abstain?”  
  
Asclepius shook her head. “I don't know. He didn't give a reason. Maybe we can convince him to tell us.”  
  
Erebus' frown deepened. Heimdal was the last of the second phase, meaning the opportunity to lead fell to those next in line, of the third phase, most of whom were directly descended from a first or second phase deity. That Raidne would bite and claw and manipulate her way into power wasn't unexpected. She had always craved it.  
  
Rumor had it that she had helped Balaam in the first war. Many believed that she had aligned herself with him, but it couldn't be proven. There had been no evidence and so she could not be punished like Balaam's other allies.  
  
Erebus knew all too well the weight of suspicion. It sat on his own shoulders like a sulfur-breathing demon. He was Balaam's son. Should he not have aligned with his father? Was he not like the god who sired him?  
  
A sharp pain in his side made Erebus start. He swung his gaze down to Asclepius, whose eyes had darkened. She'd pinched him, that little sneak.  
  
“I know that look,” she said as they stepped off the final stair, landing at last on the cobbled pathway that led to Tian. Gemstones and polished marble comprised the pathway, making it gleam and glisten in Elysium's light. “No one thinks that anymore. It was a thousand years ago, Erebus.”  
  
“It was,” he agreed, biting back a sigh. “But the past is the past. The present is now, and in the present, he's back to causing havoc and fear.”  
  
Asclepius squeezed his arm. “But only you let it bother you. Nerthus doesn't.”  
  
Erebus scowled, thinking of his younger brother. “Nerthus is an arrogant fool.”  
  
“You shouldn't talk about your brother like that.”  
  
“There's no love lost between us, not like you and your brothers.”  
  
“I am lucky,” Asclepius admitted, though she pouted again. “Overprotective nuisances that they are.”  
  
True. Erebus' robes never materialized quite the same after the quintuplets, the Bandragora, had singed his hem. Warning, they declared, not to intentionally break their sister's heart. As if Erebus intended to. There were precious few things in his existence that he valued and Ascplepius' pure, unfettered affection was one of them.  
  
They walked between two buildings, the Archives and the Observatory, a cool shadow briefly falling over them. Erebus luxuriated in it, for all the half-minute it lasted, wishing he didn't have to step back into the sunlight. But once they did emerge, it was to the dull buzz of conversation as the dozens of deities converged on the pool of Tian.  
  
A concentric amphitheater surrounded Tian, rings of seating in increasingly wider bands encircling the glossy pool. There was a gap in the ring, a walkway to a shallow set of stairs that rose to the lip of the amphitheater, but at the base of the walkway, before Tian itself, was a podium. Here was where the speaker stood, whosoever would preside over the Conclave.  
  
In this instance, it would be Raidne, but Erebus could remember other summons, other Conclaves, where his grandfather had stood tall and proud. Red hair blazing like the blood of the mortals, his mustache bobbing on his upper lip with each word, a cloak to match his hair billowing out behind him. Gilgamesh always did have a flair for the dramatic.  
  
How could he do it? The confusion tore at Erebus. How could Balaam destroy his own father and mother? His best friend, closer than a brother? How could he put power or whatever else reasoning he had above those ties? How could he betray his mate, his children?  
  
Erebus felt he would never understand his father's motivations.  
  
More and more deities trickled in, taking their designated seats. All too telling was the empty ring at the bottom, where the first phase usually resided. The second ring was equally bare, though Heimdal would be seated there once he arrived. Suzaku may or may not put in an appearance and Ma'at would not be present, though she would be watching.  
  
Erebus himself was seated on the fifth ring with others sharing a similar phase and age-group. Of those accompanying him were Raijin, Eris, Shamash, and the Bandragora among others. Asclepius would be on a ring above him, nearer to Nerthus and Toniath. The last ring, the largest of them, held empty places for future deities, though Asherah had long since ceased breathing life into the elements, and allowed the deities to populate Elysium on their own.  
  
The various deities clustered together in small groups, gossiping to themselves. Like kept to like, Erebus noted, with the nature-elements drawn to one another, and the more immaterial elements forming their own units. Dark called to dark, light called to light, and phase called to phase. Some deities were in the courting stages, others had mated, some preferred to stand alone.  
  
That Asclepius, a light immaterial deity would be drawn to Erebus of the dark was highly unusual. Erebus couldn't explain it himself. He was afraid to ask, for fear of encouraging her departure, and simply took it for the gift it was.  
  
Asclepius rose on her tiptoes, pressing a kiss to Erebus' cheek. “I have to go to my seat. Mother looks like she's about to call everyone to order.”  
  
“Not everyone's arrived yet.”  
  
“She can at least get the preliminaries started,” Asclepius said and squeezed Erebus' arm. “Find me after. We can return to Nysa together.”  
  
She pulled away from him to go their separate ways and Erebus reacted on impulse, grabbing her arm with a light hold. Confusion filled her eyes before Erebus leaned down, brushing his lips over hers. It was a rare moment when he consented to public shows of affection, but staring at the empty seats below him, the places where his family should be and no longer were, made all of that previous restraint seem foolish.  
  
Also, there was nothing quite like that speechless look on Asclepius' face, or the way her cheeks turned pink with surprise. It was even rarer that Erebus managed to surprise her.  
  
“Before we go, perhaps a moment to ourselves would not be too selfish?” Erebus suggested, keeping his tone soft so as not to be overheard.  
  
Asclepius swallowed thickly. “I think Tungsten will be able to manage without me for an hour or two.” The smile that curved her lips was genuinely pleased.  
  
“Good.” Erebus released his hold on her, letting Asclepius draw back. “I'll see you after then.”  
  
“It's a date.” Asclepius winked and Erebus watched her go, slipping between the seats to the narrow staircase. She climbed up to the next ring and scuttled down the aisle to her own chair between Toniath and an unclaimed seat.  
  
Erebus turned to find his own chair. He was on the end of the row, just behind the podium, with Raijin seated beside him. Lucky for him, he supposed, as Raijin was one of the least judgmental of the deities. They were more acquaintances than friends, but that they weren't enemies was a blessing in itself.  
  
Raijin was already seated, arms folded across his wiry frame, his pale eyes staring down at the podium. He looked up as Erebus approached, sliding back so Erebus could slip past him.  
  
“Skirting the line of tardiness, aren't you?” Raijin asked.  
  
Erebus half-smirked. “Unlike a certain many, I had to make the trip from Nysa.”  
  
“It wouldn't have anything to do with your perky distraction?” Raijin's head tipped toward the opposite side of the ring, where Asclepius waved at both of them.  
  
Lowering himself to the seat, a carved piece of uncomfortable stone, Erebus shook his head. “It's been decades since I let her distract me.”  
  
Raijin made a non-committal noise in his throat. “You're lucky.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
A low bell rung through the amphitheater, audible to every ear thanks to the natural acoustics of its design. Erebus looked down at the podium, where Raidne had climbed into the stand and was now lowering the hammer she had used to strike the bell.  
  
“If everyone would please be seated, we can convene the Conclave shortly,” Raidne said, her tone even but like the bell, carrying easily. She would not need to shout for everyone to hear her.  
  
Asclepius looked an awful lot like her mother, Erebus noted. At least in the shape of her face and eyes, her height as well. She shared her father's eye color, but otherwise, the rest of her features were a genetic surprise, as much as deities had genetics. Erebus himself looked very little like his parents. They weren't like humans. Characteristics weren't so much physical as they were magical. Though Asclepius' magic had been gained in an unusual manner. The previous tenant of her element had been destroyed in Balaam's first war and his duties passed to Asclepius.  
  
“Orthrus should have declared himself,” Raijin muttered under his breath, cutting his eyes at Erebus. “We both know Raidne doesn't have the foresight needed to approve the right choices.”  
  
He looked down, gaze finding the dark-haired and ruby-eyed deity in question. Orthrus, lord of the dead, was Asclepius' father and Raidne's former mate. Broken unions were rare in Elysium, but the relationship between Orthrus and Raidne had demanded no other outcome. It was still a point of gossip for many of the residents of Elysium.  
  
Erebus sighed, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. “And involve the rest of us in their domestic squabble? He would have fought and still lost. One might say he is simply being pragmatic.”  
  
“Or cowardly.”  
  
“I notice you didn't put in a bid against Raidne either.”  
  
A booted foot scraped against the polishing floor, Raijin sinking lower in his seat. “I don't have the political clout. There are many who would have followed Orthrus if only to avoid Raidne.”  
  
“And no doubt she called in more favors to secure the right to preside.”  
  
Raijin exhaled in a sharp gust. “I loathe politics. I fear we are far too much like our mortal brethren.”  
  
Erebus tossed him a look. “I'd be careful how loudly you say such a thing. There are eyes and ears everywhere looking for the next traitor.”  
  
“As well they should be,” Raijin said, but he wasn't looking at Erebus. He was staring at Raidne instead.  
  
The storm god had a point, Erebus reasoned. It was impossible to tell at a glance, who had sided with Balaam, if any. They would be lying in wait for Balaam's final word to help accomplish his goals, whatever they might be.  
  
Erebus was sure no few eyes were directed his way. Nerthus as well. No one dared accuse Sylph, his mother, and Baal was one of the first to be destroyed by Balaam. At least this time, no could accuse Baal of wrongdoing.  
  
Sadness gripped Erebus' heart. Baal had been like an uncle to him. He was Balaam's closest friend, and there for them after his father's imprisonment. Erebus had been young at the time of Balaam's first war, too young to understand what was going on. Deities aged exponentially slower than humans and Erebus hadn't understood why his father couldn't come back. Baal had been his rock, his surrogate parent, his protection when their fellow deities – angry and bitter – tried to take it out on a child who hadn't known any different about his father.  
  
Baal had been one of the first that Balaam destroyed. Had he even flinched? Had he felt a smidgen of regret?  
  
Erebus didn't know. But it did make it that much easier to hate his father.  
  
Energy rippled through the air, another portal opening in Elysium. Erebus looked up to see Heimdal emerging, descending the translucent stairs at a swift pace. He joined them in the amphitheater, taking his seat moments before Raidne rung the bell once more, signifying the beginning of the Conclave.  
  
“My fellow deities,” Raidne began, her voice a rolling purr designed to charm and inspire, “this Conclave has been called to discuss the situation in Nysa, the current state of affairs regarding the faithful, and the motivations and punishment of the traitor. Are there any other topics that should be added to the docket?”  
  
She paused, waiting for someone to offer terms for discussion. Silence reigned, the deities exchanging glances amongst themselves but otherwise settling in their seats.  
  
“Very well.” Raidne rested her hands on the podium's edges, her gaze tracking over each deity present. “Everyone knows what has happened. Balaam has been freed from his mortal prison and seeks to finish what he started a thousand years ago. He has already succeeded in retrieving half of the magic shards Aesir and Asherah divided amongst us.”  
  
Erebus' shoulders sank. Half indeed. Gilgamesh, Sybaris, Tiamat, Seiryu, Fafnir, and Baal.  
  
The empty seats told all the tale that Raidne need not voice.  
  
“There remain two deities who have not completed the animus bond and who Balaam has not found,” Raidne continued, and her eyes sought her former mate. “What of your animus, Orthrus?”  
  
He sat up straighter, deep voice filling the amphitheater. “She is receptive, but ignorant. She lacks the knowledge to accept me for what I am.”  
  
“Perhaps when Alaris and her team explain matters, that will change,” Hephaestion offered from the other side of the third ring.  
  
Orthrus inclined his head. “Perhaps.”  
  
Erebus nodded in agreement. They would be lucky if Orthrus' animus were more like Tungsten or Ashur, as opposed to Sleet who still proved difficult every moment of the day.  
  
“Good,” Raidne confirmed. “Keep speaking with her. It is imperative that she remain hidden. On her own, she will be no match for Balaam and his human pet.” Her eyes sought out the final anima, who like few of them, had actually volunteered to be part of an animum bond. “Aeneas, what of your animus?”  
  
“I have initiated contact and he is receptive,” the dark-haired deity replied, rising to his feet from the fifth tier. His gold eyes, hawkish in their intensity, swept the Conclave at large. “He is already on a ship headed for Corynth where I instructed him to seek out Alaris.”  
  
“Lucky,” Erebus muttered under his breath. It must have been nice to not have to argue with his bonded. Erebus still couldn't get Sleet to cooperate without badgering the thief.  
  
Raidne inclined her head. “Very good, Aeneas. Remind your anima that he is to keep a low profile. We must do our best to ensure that Balaam does not find him first.”  
  
“Of course.” Aeneas bowed at the waist, formal as always, and lowered himself back to his seat. It never ceased to surprise Erebus that such a stoic deity would volunteer to attach himself to a human. Aeneas never seemed the type to even like mortals.  
  
“One question bothers us,” the Bandragora said, five voices speaking in eerie unison, their tones varying by bare degrees. “How was Balaam freed?”  
  
“He had not the capacity to free himself,” Shamash agreed, ever one to illuminate gaps in their security net. As the patron deity of justice, it was only fitting. “Someone must have assisted him. Someone who is among us now.”  
  
Silence fell through the gathered deities, only to immediately be broken by the sound of dozens of voice, rising in protest. Erebus slowly lowered himself back to his chair, waiting for the accusations to begin. He kept his silence. It was pointless to try and shout his innocence above the din and clatter.  
  
Raidne raised a hand, calling for order above the noise.  
  
It was slow to come. Many deities had shot to their feet, like Erebus, all too used to the accusations. Resentment and contempt had bred itself strongly into their relationships over the past millennia. Sub-deities begrudged those that had kept larger measures of power. Dark deities glowered over the praise that light deities received. Elementals were too powerful, in the eyes of the Cosmics.  
  
Some deities reasoned that they had suffered more under Lord Aesir's punishment. That because of it, the humans had forgotten them. They resented those who carried more magic, who were still remembered by the mortal populace at large.  
  
Raijin had been right, though Erebus would never admit so out loud. The deities of Elysium were all too much like their mortal counterparts. They had adapted far too many mortal mannerisms: jealousy and bitterness and greed. They'd let themselves be manipulated by the concepts of good and evil, black and white, that the mortals impressed on them.  
  
“This is not the time for accusations,” Raidne said, her voice finally ringing clear and true through the amphitheater, the last of the grumbling fading to a background buzz. “Balaam grows ever closer to his goal. We need answers, not squabbling.”  
  
“What, then, do you suggest?” Shamash demanded, bristling as though someone had accused him directly. And perhaps it were not so unlikely. He was one who had suffered from Lord Aesir's punishment, losing much of his manifest power, keeping only the subtle rank that his position of justice demanded.  
  
Hephaestion shook his head, gesturing to the empty seats below him, the missing seats scattered through the rings. “No, Raidne is right. We are fewer now and Balaam grows more powerful.”  
  
“Not all the empty seats are of the departed,” Dagda commented with a thin sneer, her youthful features belying the truth of her age. “There are many not here by choice.”  
  
“We cannot fault anyone for their neutrality,” Selene offered, casting an askance look at her ring-mate, a chastisement in her words.  
  
“Their neutrality might be the tip in the scales that we need to end this,” Dagda argued, dark eyes flashing with a sheen that mirrored the pool of Tian. “For if we don't, Lord Aesir might decide upon a worse punishment.”  
  
Selene paled. So did many of the deities. Erebus, who had come into his power after the punishment, did not suffer as much. He did not know what it was like to carry higher magic, to be all but formed of it.  
  
“It is our duty,” Raidne began, though her own features had paled, her hand tightening around the edge of the podium, “to stop Balaam and bring balance back to Lieve. Have you not noticed the instability spreading across the realm?”  
  
The deities found their seats again, outrage over possible accusal fading in light of the fear, the worry over what Lord Aesir might choose this time.  
  
“Weather has been erratic,” Asclepius offered, though it was with a tentativeness that Erebus rarely viewed in the bubbly goddess. “We left Shadowglade, passed through a snowstorm, and landed in Toran only to be enveloped by a massive thunderstorm. Shadowglade and Toran are not that distant.”  
  
Selene sighed, tucking her pale hair behind her ear. “It is unwise, now, to travel the seas. Between the windstorms and the random whirlpools, most ships don't survive. The tides have also become erratic, rising further or falling deeper.”  
  
“And magic doesn't always work,” Hephaestion added. “My own is weaker. Wounds take longer to heal and larger, deeper injuries leave scars.”  
  
Erebus' eyes widened. Hephaestion's healing magic had always been without comparison. It was one of the main reasons he had never been forgotten by the humans. They valued his aid far too greatly.  
  
Raidne nodded to each deity who had offered an example. “The balance has shifted. Balaam is to blame. There is a reason Lord Aesir first divided the magic, even before Balaam's original betrayal, and that is because Lieve itself must be in balance. One deity, no matter how powerful, cannot maintain that balance.”  
  
“Then if he continues on this path, he'll destroy Lieve and Nysa itself,” Eris declared with utter horror. Her hand lifted to her mouth. “Elysium will collapse when that occurs.”  
  
“We cannot allow that to happen,” Toniath declared.  
  
A murmur of agreement rippled through the amphitheater. At last, the deities were in accord. Threats to the mortal realm were one thing. Threats to their own precious home were another.  
  
“No, we cannot,” Raidne agreed, and her grip on the podium eased. “We must find Balaam, defeat him, and restore the balance.”  
  
Raijin sat forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “It is an easy thing to declare. Not so easy in practice. He is more powerful than any one of us. How are we to take him down? How do we fix what he has broken?”  
  
“The animum bonds are on their way to providing a first line of offense. We must support them by forming a second line of our own. We must, my fellow gods and goddesses, go to war as well,” Raidne said.  
  
Hyperion shook his head. “Without the bond, we can't exist on Nysa. And we can't afford to bring the battle here.”  
  
“We must choose a vessel.”  
  
Erebus did not recognize the voice that had spoken. He was not the only one, either, as many gazes searched out the origin of the speaker.  
  
There, at the head of the stairs behind the podium, stood someone Erebus had never seen before. He or she, difficult to tell at this distance, was short for a deity, and on the lean side. They were dressed in plain black robes, their feet bare. Eye color was difficult to discern, but their hair was brown and shoulder-length.  
  
“Amun,” Toniath whispered at Erebus' right. “I have never seen shim before. I almost thought s'he did not exist.”  
  
Amun? The voice of Lord Aesir and Lady Asherah? Erebus had thought such a deity to be myth or legend.  
  
If this was indeed Amun, the situation must be truly dire. Lord Aesir often beheld a hands-off approach to dealings in Elysium and Nysa. Only twice had he interfered, the first time to create, the second time to punish. Would he interfere a third time?  
  
“A-- a vessel?” Raidne asked and Erebus blinked. It was the first time he had heard her stutter and sound uncertain.  
  
In fact, looking around, many of the deities were squirming where they sat. Some slouched as though attempting to make themselves unnoticeable. Others refused to meet Amun's gaze. It was the younger deities, like Erebus and Asclepius, who appeared fearless, if only because of their ignorance.  
  
Why was Amun a deity to fear?  
  
“Such as in the first war, the high priest chosen to bear the blessing of the gods, another must be selected to become the vessel, to carry the magic of those without bonds,” Amun said, though it didn't clarify much.  
  
“A human?” Raidne asked. “Or a deity?”  
  
Amun's gaze lowered, though shim's expression did not change. “What matters is consent, not origin. It is dangerous. It is death.”  
  
Sacrifice. Such as the route Kronos had taken to bring down Balaam the first time. That was what Amun spoke of.  
  
“Choose wisely,” Amun continued. “Choose carefully. And know, always, that our lord is watching.”  
  
No sooner had those ominous words passed into the air did Amun vanish. There was no shower of sparkles or wisp of smoke or flash of light. The voice of Aesir simply disappeared into thin air.  
  
Erebus shivered as a chill danced down his spine, though he couldn't identify the reason.  
  
“Creepy,” Raijin muttered, and Erebus agreed.  
  
Raidne cleared her throat, visibly shaking herself. “Amun has spoken,” she said and drew a deep breath. “And this Conclave must come to an end. First, I nominate Shamash to investigate Balaam's initial escape. All opposed?”  
  
Silence reigned.  
  
Erebus himself doubted Shamash would have helped Balaam. The two loathed each other. Aside from that, monitoring Balaam's imprisonment had been part of Shamash's duty. No doubt he would be vigilant in seeking out the perpetrator, if only to find out who had slipped past his security and watchful eye.  
  
“Very well. Shamash, you are thus appointed.”  
  
The deity in question tipped his head. “I am grateful for the task, Raidne. I will throw all my being into discovering the identity of the traitor, even if it is only to point a finger at those we already know.”  
  
Raidne tossed him a thin smile before continuing, “Second, we will need a volunteer for the vessel. I do not wish to trust this to the mortals.”  
  
Again, silence reigned.  
  
Raidne's bright eyes wandered to each and every deity, her face pinching with displeasure. “Will none of you offer to protect Elysium and Nysa?”  
  
Raidne, Erebus noticed, did not volunteer herself. But clearly she expected one of them to. Not that Erebus or any of the other anima could. But there were over a dozen other deities present who were more than capable of sharing the same risk as Erebus and his fellow anima.  
  
“I will.”  
  
Erebus turned, watching his younger brother rise to his feet, short black hair brushing his shoulders and his purple eyes a match for their mother's.  
  
“Nerthus?” Raidne couldn't hide her surprise.  
  
“No,” Hyperion said, his magic filling the room with a low rumble. “To give a son of Balaam that much power, I will not allow it.”  
  
Nerthus turned to the god with that cool disdain Erebus had always loathed. “Then will you take my place?” he demanded and his gaze flicked to the other deities who looked as though they wished to protest as well. “I see none of you volunteering.”  
  
“We cannot trust his motivations,” Eris murmured, but it was a tentative protest. “Though he is correct. I do not wish to become the vessel.”  
  
And no one else, Erebus realized, would volunteer. They were all too attached to their own safety. He could think of several that would have, but it was for that very trait that they had been chosen to be anima. That Balaam had already defeated them was a sobering coincidence.  
  
“Very well,” Raidne said, though her tone bred reluctance. “Nerthus, you shall be the vessel. When the time comes, we will look to you to help win this war.”  
  
“I humbly accept the role,” Nerthus said and dipped his head in a shallow bow.  
  
Erebus was far from reassured by this.  
  
“Duly noted.” Raidne exhaled softly. “I must remind everyone of one last detail before I adjourn the council. Balaam has one more piece to acquire before he can become fully inspirited. We must do our best to prevent this from happening, defeat him, and seal him once again. The fate of Elysium and Nysa lies in our hands.”  
  
She dropped back from the podium, dropping her hands to her sides. “Conclave adjourned.” Raidne stepped down, backing away from the podium, and it was all the dismissal the deities needed.  
  
Erebus was in no hurry to move. The others rose, going their separate ways, some to speak with Nerthus, others to Heimdal, and more still to Shamash. Erebus would have to return to Nysa soon, but he had a date with Asclepius first.  
  
He clasped his hands together, watching where Amun had vanished into thin air. A vessel. A traitor. A battle they could not hope to win. And Lord Aesir watching without interfering.  
  
Was this what they all felt a thousand years past when Balaam first betrayed them?  
  
A hand landed on his shoulder as someone sat next to him, leaning against his side. “You've got that worried look on your face.”  
  
Erebus pressed his knuckles to his mouth. “Shouldn't I be?”  
  
“Nerthus is going to be fine.”  
  
“Am I terrible brother for also questioning his motivations?”  
  
Asclepius squeezed his shoulder. “I don't know. Maybe. He never knew your father. Why would he want to help him?”  
  
“I knew my father and I don't want to,” Erebus said, but he winced inwardly. No, when it came down to it, he really didn't. His memories of Balaam were vague impressions filled with nothing but love and happiness.  
  
It was only knowledge of his father's misdeeds that made him detest Balaam.  
  
Asclepius sighed. “That's a question I can't really answer then.” She leaned forward, catching his gaze. “But you did promise me a moment to ourselves. I'd like that since it looks like we're all heading to our doom.”  
  
“Aren't you supposed to be the optimistic one?”  
  
“There's only so much I can do.”  
  
Erebus lifted his head and reached out, cupping Asclepius' face. “You're right. I'm sorry.” He leaned closer to her, pressing their foreheads together. “Your place or mine?”  
  
A soft chuckle spilled from the goddess. “Yours smells like an old dungeon.”  
  
Amusement tugged at Erebus' lips. “And yours makes me feel like I'm drowning in a sea of flowers.”  
  
Together, they laughed.  
  
“Yours is closer,” Erebus conceded, drawing back from her, realizing with a hint of heat that he had consented to a public display. Luckily, there were few around to witness it. “If you'll have me.”  
  
Asclepius popped up with a happy smile and pressed a kiss to his temple. “Deal. Let me wish Father luck and we can go.”  
  
True enough, Orthrus was one of the few that had lingered. He looked up at them with a fond smile on his face, though the darkness behind his eyes could not be hidden. He had taken Baal's loss as hard as Erebus, if not harder.  
  
“All right.” Erebus took and squeezed her hand before letting her go. “I'll be waiting.”  
  
Asclepius grinned and hopped down to the lower ring, choosing to climb over the seats rather than use the more dignified stairs. Erebus watched her throw herself into her father's arms, conversation passing between them, and felt the affection within him swell to greater heights.  
  
Nevertheless, he could not completely forestall the pessimism either. Not with the darkness lurking on the horizon and the unknowns crowding his thoughts.  
  
The future was a grey haze and Erebus couldn't look into it. He was uncertain, but more than that, he was afraid. He did not know if they would survive this war and that worried Erebus most of all.


	40. The Road to Ruin: Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude: (Nine Parts) With time growing shorter, Sleet and company make the decision to divide their forces in order to beat Balaam at his own game. But their enemy is no fool and will cause them to make one of their hardest choices yet.

The den was the only room large enough to hold them all, human and deity alike. There wasn't enough furniture to go around, which left Sleet and Beryl to take up a seat on the floor. Tungsten, too, volunteered while some of the deities were content to stand. It was still a tight fit and only Alaris' insistence that Sleet's parents be elsewhere kept it from being too confined.  
  
Still, Sleet couldn't help darting a gaze between the open frame of the door and the unshuttered window, which let in bright streams of sunlight. It was the first bit of blue sky they had seen in a week since arriving in Toran. Whatever deity was to blame for the foul weather had finally cut them a break.  
  
The urge to make a run for it blossomed in the back of Sleet's mind. It didn't matter that he had no idea where to go. The urge was there. He was hard pressed to ignore it.  
  
“Is everyone here?” Alaris asked, no doubt counting heads and checking faces as she turned in a low circle, surveying her minions.  
  
Sleet could honestly think of no better word. They were all minions, drafted into this war between gods with little choice otherwise.  
  
Frost's words continued to ring at the back of his mind. He didn't want to admit that he was tempted, but he looked at Alaris and all he could feel was contempt. She didn't like him any more than he liked her.  
  
“Yes,” Heimdal replied from where he sat on the couch, squeezed against one arm as he shared it with Malach and Raven, neither of whom were small and both of whom were still in recovery. Though Malach, despite being more grievously wounded, was healing faster than Raven.  
  
“Good.” Alaris inclined her head, a small sigh escaping her. “We need to decide our next move. We've wasted a week here, though the break was much needed, and now we have no information on Balaam or his next target.”  
  
Iblion leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees. “It should be obvious. With two animus remaining, Balaam is certain to go after them first.”  
  
“Two?” Tungsten frowned, looking as confused as Sleet felt. “Did you miscount? Or am I mistaken? Isn't there one more?”  
  
“There are two,” Hephaestion replied from where he stood near the window as though watching for threats to their safety.  
  
Sleet, like a few others, counted on his fingers the ones he knew and had heard mention of. But it was Ashur, the latecomer, who asked how many there actually were.  
  
“Thirteen,” Asclepius supplied with an energetic wriggle. She never seemed short on energy and Sleet reasoned that kind of optimism had to be exhausting.  
  
“Fourteen,” Raven corrected, though his brows drew deeper as did his scowl. “Or did you forget Frost?”  
  
Hephaestion inclined his head. “She did not forget. Frost is not an animus.”  
  
Sleet was not the only one whose jaw dropped. Wait. What?  
  
Beryl's the one whose lips twist with distaste and nothing short of anger. “You had us believing otherwise,” he said, and Sleet found himself in agreement for once.  
  
“If Frost's not an animus, then how is Balaam walking around in his body?” Sleet demanded, wondering what else the deities might have conveniently forgot to mention. Or correct their assumptions.  
  
The deities exchanged meaningful glances, though of them only Asclepius looked like she had no clue to the answer.  
  
“It is complicated,” Hephaestion finally said. “And is neither here nor there. The important fact to take away from this is that there are two more animus.”  
  
“Which still doesn't help us because we don't know where they are,” Tungsten insisted, but Sleet noticed, he was more subdued than usual.  
  
“I dunno,” Sleet said, leaning back on his hands and crossing his legs at the ankles. “I think why Frost is attached to Balaam is pretty damn important. Why don't we circle back to that?”  
  
Raven growled. “No one cares about saving your lover, thief. He got himself into that mess and he can get himself out as far as I'm concerned.”  
  
Beside Sleet, Beryl bristled. And once again, Sleet found himself in the uncomfortable position of agreeing with the blond thief.  
  
“You don't know anything,” Beryl hissed, eyes narrowing. “And I think it's important, too. Like for instance, if Balaam was supposed to be sealed, how did he get loose in the first place?”  
  
Sleet paled and scooted an inch away from the other thief. This was not a topic he wished to revisit. Not when it had already been established that particular fault was his.  
  
“Why don't you ask your best friend?” Raven demanded, single eye glaring at Sleet. “He was the one stupid enough to unlock the chains.”  
  
Beryl's gaze whipped toward Sleet but thank Asherah, Alaris stomped her foot and cut into the rising tension.  
  
“Gentlemen, we have more important matters to discuss,” she said, her tone even but loud enough to override them. Her gaze shifted to Hephaestion. “The animus?” she prompted.  
  
“We know where they are,” Hephaestion said, serene as always. “One is already en route to Corynth, aboard a ship from Sanjara. He shall arrive within two weeks.”  
  
Heimdal sighed and rubbed his forehead with two fingers. “The other is in Thessalia.”  
  
Distaste rippled through those gathered, though Sleet couldn't imagine why. Thessalia was a country on the eastern shore, largely ringed by mountains, and it was the main exporter of the famous Rozlin brew. That, however, was the extent of Sleet's knowledge on the land.  
  
“I didn't know people still lived in that Asherah-forsaken land,” Erebus said, but his gaze flickered to Heimdal. “You were one of them, long ago, weren't you?”  
  
“Centuries upon centuries,” Heimdal confirmed and his hand slid down his face, fingers covering his mouth as though reluctant to speak the words. “They were the first to abandon we gods, but certainly not the last.”  
  
“Of course people still live there,” Beryl said with a roll of his eyes. “Rozlin is famous for its ale. Though I hear that's getting scarce. They've been suffering under a drought.”  
  
“Which comes as little surprise to us,” Hephaestion commented, distaste thick in his tone. “Ishvara was the last to be forsaken and she did not take that ousting well.”  
  
Sleet blinked. “Who?”  
  
“Ishvara,” Iblion repeated. “The name given to the deity elements that comprised several of us, including Sybaris, Raijin and myself, though Sybaris was the main purveyor.”  
  
Tungsten frowned. “That sounds complicated.”  
  
“It is.” Hephaestion waved a dismissing hand. “And it is again causing us to go off-topic. Regardless of our own personal feelings for the land, the fact remains that it does house an animus, one that we know is ignoring the calls of her anima.”  
  
Alaris sighed, her face pinched. “Two animus on opposite coasts. By the time we get to one, Balaam will have destroyed the other.”  
  
“That's assuming we remain together,” Malach said, and Sleet's a bit surprised the Kuraian would speak up considering his recent health. “Why not divide and conquer?”  
  
“We're barely staffed as it is,” Alaris pointed out. “We would be vulnerable if we divided our forces. There are few trained fighters among us and even fewer magic users.”  
  
Raven arched a brow. “So it's better to give Balaam one unlucky sot without a fight? Which one do you want to give him then? The sailor or the bartender?”  
  
“If you ask me, wherever Sleet-san goes is the direction we have most to be concerned about,” Tungsten said with a sidelong look Sleet's direction. His face burned red, a stammer easing from his lips. “If we did split up, I mean.”  
  
Sleet pinched his lips together, swallowing down the outrage. It was probably true, which was the only reason he didn't explode with anger. That didn't make it any easier a bitter herb to swallow. Frost would track him down. Frost was not one to give up so easily what he desired. Even if it didn't make a whit-bit of sense to Sleet.  
  
Alaris turned her gaze to Tungsten as though she'd never seen him before. “You know,” she said with a thoughtful tone. “You may have a point.”  
  
Raven snorted a laugh. “He's right. We've got our biggest piece of bait sitting right here. We're a target if we're split up or not, so might as well make the best use of it.”  
  
Sleet narrowed his eyes. “I repeat, I don't recall volunteering to be on this expedition. I remember being dragged and forced into it. I can just as easily walk away.”  
  
“Which you haven't done yet,” the mercenary pointed out with a raised eyebrow. “I'd wonder why but it's pretty damned obvious.”  
  
Ashur groaned, throwing himself back in his chair and covering his eyes with his hand. “Not this again. By Asherah, can we just have a conversation without ego getting involved?”  
  
“With this crew? I think not,” Erebus commented dryly and Asclepius laughed. Well, at least someone was getting their amusement out of this debacle.  
  
Sleet clamped his mouth shut. Raven, at least, had the decency to lapse into silence as well. Not that it meant this was over.  
  
Silence reigned.  
  
“Good,” Hephaestion said, unable to hide the weariness in his tone as he faced them all. “Then we can get down to business. Splitting up is a wise decision, perhaps the only logical decision to make.”  
  
“But Thessalia is much further away than the west coast,” Tungsten pointed out.  
  
“It depends on what part of the west coast,” Asclepius corrected with a bubbly grin. “Do we know what port he'll be arriving at?”  
  
Heimdal nodded. “Darthen. Which is a week's ride from here at top speed.”  
  
“I feel like we're walking in endless circles,” Sleet groaned, drawing up his legs and curling them beneath him.  
  
“Darthen, at least, is convenient,” Iblion mused, armor rattling as he shifted position on the couch. “Though Tungsten's point is fair. Darthen is a week's ride away. Thessalia is at least a month, if not more, and that doesn't include the journey over the mountains.”  
  
Heimdal arched a brow, a smirk curving his lips. “Thessalia is far, yes, but not if one travels using unconventional means.”  
  
Come to think of it, Heimdal and Malach had arrived in Toran at nearly the exact same moment as Sleet and the others. And they hadn't been traveling by horse or any other similar mode of transportation.  
  
Alaris' eyes brightened. “How many can you carry?”  
  
“Aside from myself and my anima? Two others,” Heimdal answered and crossed his arms. “Ours would have to be a small team which leaves the larger group the burden of drawing Balaam's attention a-purpose.”  
  
“I will lead the other team. And I will take Sleet,” Alaris said and she turned to face Raven. “I would ask that you lead the other team.” Which, Sleet noticed, had the added benefit of putting distance between himself and the querulous mercenary.  
  
“Fine,” Raven grunted. “But you're taking both thieves.”  
  
Alaris rubbed her forehead. “Beryl would be easier to transport.”  
  
“I'm not baggage,” the blond hissed and crossed his arms. “Aside from that, I'm going wherever Sleet goes. Just try and tell me otherwise.”  
  
Personally, Sleet didn't see why they continued to allow Beryl to tag along. He was a betrayal waiting to happen. Not that Sleet was particularly loyal.  
  
“You'll need a friendly face,” Asclepius slipped in, giving both Beryl and Raven an askance look. “Someone a little less dangerous looking. We volunteer.”  
  
“We do?” Tungsten asked and he looked a little pale behind the sharp black lines on his forehead. He'd painstakingly reapplied them this morning having sported a fresh face for the past week.  
  
“Asclepius is correct. Especially considering this animus has yet to acknowledge the call of her anima. It would be better to approach her in a less threatening manner,” Hephaestion said and they both had a point.  
  
Malach and Raven were visibly scarred, bristled with weaponry, and neither of them were capable of smiling. At least, not in Sleet's experience. Tungsten was clumsy, but polite and friendly and more likely to be charming. He would be a good negotiator.  
  
Though that left Alaris with the remnants and none of the warriors. Sleet winced. Iblion was probably the most skilled among them, with Erebus a close second, but none of the animus would be of any use. While Beryl was a decent thief, warrior he was not.  
  
This, of course, Iblion noticed with a frown. “You take the strongest of us with you,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Is that wise?”  
  
Alaris spread her hands. “Do you see a better alternative?” She spun in a slow circle, as though opening the floor for someone else to suggest a different configuration.  
  
“Splitting up is all well and good, but what happens afterward?” Erebus asked, gesturing to the group as a whole. “When the animus are found and recruited, what then?”  
  
“We meet up again,” Tungsten offered, but his tone was uncertain, as though it was the wrong answer. Considering the building tension in the room, Sleet wasn't offering his own opinion.  
  
His eyes slid to the door. Erebus was no longer planted in front of it. Nor was Hephaestion perched in front of the window.  
  
Escape wasn't much of an option, was it?  
  
“We go to Lesoth,” Hephaestion supplied, his fingers flexing around the length of his staff. “We need answers and I suspect we will find them there.”  
  
Alaris' eyes narrowed as she turned toward her anima, no shortage of suspicion on her face. “Answers to what? And what happened during your Conclave? Or is the answer to that beyond our mortal comprehension?”  
  
Hmm. Sleet was sensing a little tension here. He supposed all was not rainbow and sunshine between the animum bonds present.  
  
The deities exchanged glances but it was Heimdal who spoke, prefacing his speech with another long sigh. “It's complicated,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Balaam is growing in power. Even with our combined forces, we are unsure of our capability to defeat him. Worse than that, there is a traitor in the ranks.”  
  
“Amongst the deities,” Erebus clarified, folding his arms over his chest, his dark robes rustling around his ankles. “Someone had to free Balaam from his initial prison. Because of that, we dare not speak openly about anything. We do not know who it is.”  
  
“Why Lesoth?” Beryl asked.  
  
“Balaam's temple,” Alaris murmured, pressing her knuckles to her lips in contemplation. “Historically, that is where it is located. Is that where he is hiding?”  
  
“We don't know. Given the range of abilities he's accumulated and the fact that he is the master of shadows, he is more than adept at concealing himself from us,” Hephaestion answered. “But Lesoth is a good place to start.”  
  
“And no matter which coast you set sail from, you can arrive in Sanjara within a week,” Ashur offered, tone tentative but much less than it used to be. Sleet didn't know what changed, but Ashur barely resembled the half-dead creature he'd been a week ago.  
  
“Which is convenient considering I can neither transport five physical beings across the continent, nor cross the ocean,” Heimdal said. “Do we have enough coin to charter two ships?”  
  
At this, Sleet all but laughed. “Considering that the Kurai took it all, not a chance. There's a reason we're damn lucky my parents could take us in.”  
  
“That does present a problem,” Hephaestion mused.  
  
“Only for some people,” Beryl said and for the third time today, they shared a glance of agreement that sent a shiver down Sleet's back.  
  
Clearly, Frost had fucked him up in more ways than one if he was seriously agreeing with Beryl on any subject. Then again, Beryl had the freedom to walk away from this if he wanted. Sleet didn't have that luxury.  
  
“We are not _stealing_ the funds we need,” Alaris hissed.  
  
Beryl rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “Suit yourself. But I don't see how we have enough time to work honest jobs. And tickets across the Delmaar don't come cheap.”  
  
Alaris exhaled audibly, one hand rising to rub her forehead now.  
  
“Desperate times call for desperate measures and all that,” Sleet offered, feeling a none-too-secret glee. “Isn't saving the world a little more important than some rich bastard missing a few bags of gold?”  
  
“I hate to say that they have a point,” Tungsten said tentatively. “Unless you know of another option?”  
  
“Darthen is a large city, a trading and transport hub,” Alaris said, dropping her hand and narrowing her eyes. “We will come across the fare honestly or not at all.”  
  
“Right,” Sleet drawled. “We'll see what actually happens when we get there.” He had a feeling Alaris' righteous attitude would fall by the wayside once she realized how much it would actually cost and how little funds they had. Especially once they procured horses and supplies for the journey to come.  
  
Heimdal rose to his feet, though the motion was more abrupt and less threatening. “It won't take us as long to travel through the land. We'll stay here another couple of days to give Malach and Raven both time to be in optimal condition.”  
  
“I am healed now,” Malach declared, his eyes narrowing. “I am capable of carrying my own weight.”  
  
“Good for you,” Raven grunted. “But I'm still limping and I'm more worried about keeping my skin intact than not admitting I'm only half-capable. I can wait.”  
  
“I'm ready to go whenever you wish me to be,” Tungsten said and managed one of those nervous, half-smiles that Sleet found so irritating. He almost felt sorry for the mage, being stuck with two of the more uninteresting members of their little cohort.  
  
“We will leave first thing in the morning,” Alaris announced and Sleet bit back his groan of dismay. “We haven't any time to waste. Are there any questions?”  
  
Sleet couldn't think of one. And neither could anyone else. It was pretty clear. Get to the animus before Balaam. Meet in Lesoth. Don't die.  
  
Sleet was particularly fond of the last one.  
  
“Well then, you're free to go.” Alaris made shooing motions at all of them. “And make sure to thank the Uptons for their hospitality.”  
  
“Yes, Stewart, thank you,” Beryl said, leaning uncomfortably close to Sleet. Enough that his warm breath washed over Sleet's ears.  
  
He grimaced and pushed himself to his feet, rolling away from the blond thief. There was a reason he'd been sleeping in the barn. Close quarters with Beryl was not ideal.  
  
Everyone left from the Den, going their separate ways. Sleet aimed straight for the front door, hoping to escape before he caught his mother's notice.  
  
She, however, proved to be inescapable. “Stewart.” His mother stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “A word, please?” She smiled, but there was command in her tone.  
  
His shoulders slumped. “Yes, Ma.” It could only be worse if Pa was waiting for him, too.  
  
Which he was, Sleet noticed with a barely repressed sigh. He trudged to the table and pulled out a chair, sliding into it with a soft thump. A cup of coffee was slid in front of him as his parents took a chair as well, hands curling around their own cups. Something was cooking in the oven, no doubt another one of his mother's famous evening meals. Two pies cooled on the counter and Sleet wondered if one of them contained this seasons harvest of blackberries.  
  
By Asherah but he missed fresh-picked blackberries.  
  
“I overheard,” Ma began, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears as she looked at him. “You will be leaving in the morning.”  
  
Sleet fought the urge to squirm. “Yeah. You know how it is. Early bird catches the worm. Though in this case, we're saving the world.” He flashed a grin.  
  
“Stewart, we've heard how dangerous this is,” Pa said, elbows braced on the table and clutching his coffee as though it were a lifeline. “Are you sure this is what you want to do?”  
  
Want? Sleet barely kept from guffawing at them. Since when did what he wanted have anything to do with it?  
  
He buried his expression behind his coffee, inhaling the delicious fresh-brewed flavor of it. “I can't just walk away,” he lied and ignored the pressure of Erebus at the back of his mind. Like an unwanted conscience! “It's kind of important.”  
  
His parents exchanged glances and his mother reached out, touching his elbow with the tips of her fingers. “Yes, it is. And we want you to know that we're proud of you.”  
  
“But we won't be upset if you choose to stay,” Pa added. “You know you're always welcome here. You'll always have a place with us.”  
  
“I know.” Boy, did he know. Though by all accounts, returning home was one of the last things he wanted to do. Though it was only a step below taking on a murderous demi-deity to save the world and possibly, the universe.  
  
“You'll always be my baby,” Ma said with a sniffle, hand rising to cup his cheek and Sleet all but sank lower in his chair.  
  
“And whatever you need that we have, just ask,” Pa said with such earnestness, he reminded Sleet of Tungsten.  
  
He loved his parents. He truly did. But it was times like this that reminded him of why he left in the first place. They were _suffocating_.  
  
“We heard mention of coin,” Ma said, retracting her hand and exchanging another glance with Pa. “We have some to spare. And you can take two of the horses.”  
  
“With your brothers gone, we have more than enough food. We can pack you supplies for the trip. All of you,” Pa added.  
  
It was, also, a bit eerie the way the two of them seemed to always be in sync and agreement. It was certainly nothing like the tumultuous not-relationship Sleet had with Frost.  
  
“I'm sure Alaris will appreciate it,” Sleet said with another smile. “I do, too. And now I need to go get ready because Alaris wants to leave before dawn and that doesn’t leave much time for anything else.”  
  
He pushed himself away from the chair, untouched cup of coffee sloshing over the rim.  
  
His father looked disappointed; his mother looked sad. Considering Sleet had spent the majority of his life with them looking at him like that, it was oddly comforting.  
  
He endured their embraces, his mother clinging to him as though she never wanted to let go, and Sleet slithered free with tatters of his dignity left behind. He made his escape, heading straight for the barn which had served as his bedroom for the past week.  
  
 _You disdain your parents_ , Erebus said, his voice trickling into Sleet's mind. It was more than a little disappointing to have his privacy taken away again, especially since he had gotten used to having it for the past week. Erebus' return last night had not been welcome.  
  
' _Disdain is a strong word_ ,' Sleet retorted as he hauled himself up into the loft, surveying the items he had gathered for himself. Numerous, stealthy trips into town had all but completely restocked the items the Kurai had stolen from him. ' _Being here reminds me of why I left. I love my parents, but I don't love being here_.'  
  
Silence reigned, but not for long.  
  
 _You are blind to the blessings you have_ , Erebus said and there was a tightness to his voice, like concealed anger.  
  
Sleet blinked.  
  
 _Nor do I think you truly grasp the concept of love_ , his animus continued and there was chastisement in his tone as much as anything else.  
  
Sleet narrowed his eyes, a retort dancing on the tip of his tongue, but the pressure of Erebus' presence in his mind abruptly lightened. Erebus had taken his leave, which he did from time to time whenever he returned to Tartarus, but not without the disturbing aftertaste of disdain.  
  
Sleet sighed, throwing himself onto his pallet of blankets and hay and crossing his arms behind his head.  
  
Making friends, he was not.  
  
 _Come with me._  
  
Frost's request purred at the back of his mind.  
  
 _You don't belong with them and you know it._  
  
Seductive and sly, teasing at the edge of Sleet's ears.  
  
He curled on his side, staring at his stuffed saddlebag, thinking of the journey tomorrow. A week's ride to Darthen where they would meet another esteemed animus and then a long sail to Sanjara. He would be trapped on a ship with Alaris and company for at least a week.  
  
 _Come with me._  
  
Sleet didn't want to watch the world burn. But he had the sneaky suspicion that it was already on fire without a bucket of water to be found.  
  


  
***


	41. The Road to Ruin: Chapter Two

The sun had yet to kiss the sky by the time Alaris was ushering them all onto horses, barking orders and looking fresher than the dew on the grass. Ashur rubbed sleep from his eyes, trying not to yawn, and not at all looking forward to sharing a horse with Iblion for the duration of their journey. That he was sore all over was a charming bonus. Iblion was a taskmaster to the fullest and Ashur couldn't remember a time he'd felt the ache of honest labor. He was not cut out for this.   
  
He'd spoken as much.   
  
Iblion was not dissuaded. Never mind that Ashur had yet to show any talent in any of the martial or weapons arts. Iblion was determined that Ashur learn how to defend himself. By any means necessary.   
  
“By the gods,” Ashur said with a heavy sigh. “I've never felt so sore.”   
  
“It will only get worse. A week spent in the saddle won't help,” Iblion replied as he grabbed onto the saddle horn and hauled himself up behind Ashur.   
  
His magic, like a constant buzz around him, pushed against Ashur weakly. Perhaps it wasn't tangible to the others, but Ashur could tell. Iblion was weakening. Whether it was due to his distance from Adair or the fact that he didn't dare return to the immortal plane, Ashur didn't know. But of the demi-deities, Iblion was the one who looked the most human.   
  
The circles under his eyes grew darker with each passing day. The lines in his face grew more pinched. He ate when the other deities did not. He slept, when the other deities had no need to do so.   
  
Was this extended time spent in the mortal world making him more human? Ashur was afraid to ask. But he'd read of something similar in one of Mrs. Upton's storybooks. It was the tale of an ancient deity, one punished by being banished to Lieve without the tether of an animum bond. Though this banishment was before the institution of the bond since the book had no mention of such a thing. Just that the deity had been denied his tether.   
  
Was Adair Iblion's tether?   
  
“I can't imagine the horse is any more thrilled,” Ashur murmured, leaning forward to pat the sturdy beast on the neck. It snuffled, tossing its head.   
  
“Would that we had the coin for more,” Iblion agreed.   
  
Coin, unfortunately, was in short supply.   
  
Ashur straightened, eyes scanning their companions. Sleet and Beryl, a volatile pair if anything, were resorting to sharing a horse as well, with Alaris the only one lucky enough to have her own space. Granted, she shared it with saddlebags packed to the brim, but Ashur envied her that solitude.   
  
Sleet was standing next to his horse, being subjected to repeated embraces by his parents, and though it was dark outside, the flush of embarrassment was easily seen in the lantern light. Ashur also didn't miss the small pouch that his father pressed into his hand.   
  
He wondered if the Uptons had any clue what their son was actually doing with his life. If they knew he was a thief and probably a liar and definitely some kind of deviant. Did they know he was only here because he hadn't come across a better option?   
  
Beneath Ashur, the horse lurched and he grabbed onto the saddle horn to keep from getting tossed off. Iblion expertly handled the reins, guiding them over to where Alaris was peering at a map, holding up a small gem that glowed a pale light.   
  
“What's the route?” Iblion asked as Ashur tried to get a glimpse of the map as well. He'd seen bits and pieces of the region in books but nothing quite so detailed as what Alaris had.   
  
“Sleet said that the coast is our best bet,” Alaris said, her tone musing, but she didn't sound convinced. “There are less likely to be raiding parties and no costly tolls.”   
  
“Tolls?” Ashur repeated.   
  
Alaris pointed at two spots on the map with her little finger. “Here and here. This is a mountain pass, the safest one, thus the toll. This one's a bridge and Hemsey is on the other side of it. We could stand to resupply there, but again, the tolls.”   
  
Ashur gnawed on his bottom lip. “If we take the coast, does that mean we're not staying anywhere with a roof?”   
  
Alaris arched a brow at him as she tucked her jewel away and rolled up the map. “Are there coins sewn into your robes that you've neglected to share?”   
  
In other words, no.   
  
“You might still want to consider keeping any local towns in mind,” Beryl commented as he rode up on Alaris' other side, holding the reins with Sleet facing the tail of the horse for some reason that would only make sense to Sleet.   
  
Alaris frowned. “Why?”   
  
Beryl pointed one gloved hand upward. Alaris followed his gaze and Ashur looked up, too. It was still dark, but he couldn't see the stars, most likely because they were obscured by thick clouds.   
  
“Snowstorms on our way to Toran. Intense thunderstorms while we are here. Who knows what else might mete out punishment on our journey?” Beryl said, tightening first one glove and then the other. He'd also somehow acquired a thick cloak and wintery clothing.   
  
Ashur didn't want to think about how the thief had afforded such purchases. Unless, of course, he'd raided Sleet's closet. Considering they were about the same size, it wasn't beyond the realm of plausibility. Ashur himself was wearing some of Sleet's eldest brother's clothing. And boots.   
  
“There are a few settlements,” Sleet offered with a shrug. “They aren't much, but they are better than nothing. So long as you're not picky.”   
  
Alaris rolled up her map, tucking it away in a saddlebag. “We'll have to play it by ear. We can't afford any unnecessary delays. We were lucky enough for the week-long respite as it is.”   
  
“Lucky is one word you could use,” Sleet muttered, but Ashur didn't think Alaris heard it. She was paying too much attention to the landscape ahead of them.   
  
“We should get going,” Alaris said. “We haven't time to waste. Is everyone ready?”   
  
A chorus of muttered affirmatives met her question with Ashur adding his own. Ready wasn't quite the word he'd use but it would suffice for now.   
  
Alaris rode in front, guiding them away from the Upton farm. Ashur did not look back, at the relative safety of the farmhouse, because he'd promised himself that he would be strong, for Adair's sake if not his own.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
Horseback remained as not fun and uncomfortable as Sleet remembered it to be, and after two days of hard riding accompanied by sleeping on the hard ground, he was not happy. Alaris pushed them as fast as their bodies could take: early to rise, late to sleep, as fast across the rocky ground as their horses could manage. That the weather had started to behave as strangely as Lieve itself didn't make it any easier.   
  
Snowstorms. Windstorms. Thunderstorms. And now this.   
  
This being temperatures so hot that Sleet's underclothes were soaked, he'd long since removed his outer tunic and sweat dripped in rivulets down his face. It was the middle of winter in the north and it was hot enough to roast corn out here. This was made worse by the steamy air rising from the ground as last nights snowfall quickly melted and evaporated in the menacing sun.   
  
Their pace slowed to a crawl. The horses, overburdened, exhausted and now subject to extreme temperatures were in a worse condition than their human riders. Alaris knew it, too. The slower the horses became, despite her prodding, the tighter her mouth drew into a frown.   
  
They would have to stop and rest, find shade and water, and hope that the blistering heat passed them by as quickly as the snow had.   
  
“This is insane,” Beryl muttered, hunching as far forward on the horse to get away from Sleet as possible.   
  
Sleet couldn't be offended. He was leaning as far back as he could. Body heat didn't make the ambient temperature any better. Where their thighs touched was a sweaty, sticky mess already and he feared that they might be glued to the saddle after all.   
  
“The whole world's gone to the pot,” Sleet agreed, swiping sweat out of his eyes before the salt burned them. Again. “What did you expect?”   
  
_The balance has been disrupted_ , Erebus said, sounding perfectly at ease because of course, he would. He was in some immortal dimension where the temperature wasn't a few shades off being the ninth floor of Tartarus. _Such is a consequence of Balaam's actions._  
  
Sleet ignored him.   
  
“I expect that Alaris will gain some sense,” Beryl said, shoulders hunched as his tunic stuck to him in sticky clumps. “These horses are going to collapse and then we'll be walking to Darthen.”   
  
Sleet considered his aching ass and wondered if walking would be preferable. At least he had boots that fit now since he'd raided his closet before they left. Though it irked him that his clothes from years ago still fit.   
  
“Alaris.”   
  
Sleet turned his head, watching as Iblion rode up to the priestess' side, a drooping Ashur draped against his back.   
  
“We must stop,” Iblion said and he looked the worse for wear. His battle armor was heavy and trapped the heat, too difficult to pull off from horseback. Ashur fared little better in his thick robes which he seemed reluctant to remove.   
  
Alaris' gaze flicked around their group, fingers tight as they gripped the reins. “And if the heat continues well into tomorrow?”   
  
“It will still do us no good to cause the horses to collapse,” Iblion said and as if on cue, his beast stumbled beneath him, nearly pitching his riders forward.   
  
“Very well. Perhaps it will be better to travel at night anyway.” Alaris raised higher in the saddle. “Where do you propose we stop?” She began digging in her pouch, probably for her outdated map.   
  
Grassland stretched for miles around, the landscape rising and falling in rolling hills. It made the plain appear endless but Sleet knew this land.   
  
“There'll be trees over the next rise,” Sleet offered, gesturing ahead of them. “The road dips sharply and cuts around the forest, but there's a river and shade to be found there. The forest stretches back toward the mountains.” And it had been growing steadily outward for the past decade. One could look and see evidence of the road's gradual shift around the forest.   
  
Alaris frowned, peering at her map. “I don't see it.”   
  
“Who has time to sketch in every little detail? It's there,” Sleet said with a huff.   
  
“I hardly count a forest as a little detail,” Alaris muttered but she rolled up the aging parchment and shoved it in her bag. “But we will see. Will that suffice, Iblion?”   
  
The demi-deity frowned, eyes narrowing. “It should.”   
  
Friction crackled between them. Sleet wondered if the heat was to blame or Iblion's increasingly bad mood and energy. The deity did not look well, even Sleet had noticed. Dark circles, wan appearance, a twitch in his left brow... clearly distance from the immortal plane was weakening him, especially without Adair around.   
  
_He has no tether,_ Erebus offered. _We can't even explain how he's staying corporeal in the first place. If he would strengthen his ties to Ashur, perhaps that would help.  
  
'I didn't ask for an explanation_,' Sleet replied. ' _Though you might want to pass that on to Alaris._ ' He paused, intending to end the conversation, but curiosity got the best of him. _'What will happen to him, you think?'  
  
I don't know_, Erebus admitted. _There is no precedence._   
  
Well, that was good news. Not.   
  
Sleet frowned, lapsing into silence. The heat sapped away even his energy to bicker. He just wanted to get to some shade, drink some water, and perhaps sleep the rest of the week away. He knew his skin had burned, could feel the tightening around his nose and cheeks. That wasn't going to be fun to deal with either.   
  
Their horses trudged over the next rise and Sleet grinned, smug, as the copse of trees came into view. It was a narrow stand that broadened as it curved back toward the mountain range. He knew a river wound threw it, following the dips of the land. It was shallow and sluggish, but better than nothing.   
  
Their pace noticeably increased as the forest came into sight and Sleet sighed in relief the moment they stepped off the road and into the shade.   
  
“Thank Asherah,” Beryl breathed, and Sleet wanted to echo him.   
  
He slid off the horse, willing to walk beside it now that they weren't directly under the sun. His thighs and back protested the motion. Sleet stretched his arms over his head and twisted his torso from side to side, back cracking in relief.   
  
“That's disgusting,” Ashur commented with a pinched look.   
  
Sleet rolled his neck toward the lone twin. “Your point?”   
  
“You have no respect for anyone, do you?” Ashur asked, the disgust in his tone plainly evident. Such a shame that. And Sleet had just begun to like Adair when Frost whisked him away.  
  
“I give respect where it's due,” Sleet retorted, and made it a point to show Ashur his back. It was nice to know that in Raven's absence, someone else was picking up the slack. “I'm going to scout ahead.”   
  
He didn't give anyone the opportunity to convince him otherwise. He plunged into the forest surrounding the narrow, overgrown path. It would be faster to walk through the wood than follow the sinuous road, he reasoned. And there was the added bonus of distance from his traveling companions who watched him as though he were a traitor in the making.   
  
He didn't need any more proof of Frost's words right now.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
Beryl watched Sleet go, part of him itching to join the other thief if only to be free of this horse and Sleet's companions. He wasn't inclined to traveling with normal people and it wasn't the joyride people claimed it could be. He itched for the darkness and damp of Kurnugia, for the world to return to the normal paradigm.   
  
His gaze traveled to Ashur who was staring after Sleet with distaste. The friction between Sleet and Raven had been tangible, but it seemed the pasty civilian didn't much like Sleet either. Could this work in his favor?   
  
Frost was a walking contradiction. He wanted Beryl to bring him Sleet somehow. But he couldn't just take him. It had to be willingly. How the fuck could someone be kidnapped willingly?   
  
Beryl's hands tightened around the reins. He chewed on his bottom lip. He needed Frost to return Kurnugia to rights. Otherwise it would fall to Riordan and in time, it would become nothing more than a den of scum. At least now there was an order to the madness. They policed their own, weeding out the truly heinous. Even for a clan of criminals, there were rules, laws that no one dared break because the underlord would mete out punishment swiftly and without appeal.   
  
He was sorely tempted to turn this damn horse around and forget Sleet, forget Frost, forget this insane endeavor to defeat a god and deal with Riordan on his own. It would have to be assassination of course, and he would have to sway several key members of the cabinet to put their bids behind him. Leadership was far from what Beryl wanted, but it was better in the long run than having Riordan as underlord.   
  
These were his options. Bring Frost back or take on the task of unseating Riordan himself, fighting an uphill battle against criminals who still had their own ideas about who should be their lord.   
  
The frustration ate at him.   
  
His eyes traveled to Ashur once again. Of anyone in this group, he was the most likely to be of use. Alaris wrinkled her nose at anything slightly above the law. Iblion was a demi-deity so he wouldn't be willing to bend the rules. But Ashur? He didn't like Sleet and with good reason. Hadn't Tungsten said that his brother had been taken?   
  
It had potential. He only had to separate Ashur from his godly guardian first. An enormous task in unto itself.   
  
Fortunately, it seemed Fate had her hand in Beryl's pot. The next rise gave way to a campsite off the beaten path, a firepit ready for use and surrounded by logs in various states of decay. Sleet had already arrived, lounging against one of the logs, which came as no surprise to Beryl. He could have been gathering firewood or something useful, though in all likelihood they wouldn't need a fire tonight. Not with the oppressive heat.   
  
“There's a river around here somewhere,” Sleet said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “I heard it but didn't find it.”   
  
Alaris dismounted, her eyebrow twitching. “Would it be too much trouble for you to go look for it or would that be asking for too much?”   
  
“I'll go,” Ashur volunteered to the surprise of everyone. His face was flushed from the heat and he looked as though he needed a bedroll more than anything else.   
  
Opportunity knocked; Beryl certainly wasn't going to ignore it.   
  
“I'll come with you,” Beryl said, dismounting as well and handing off the reins to Sleet. “I'm sure I have more experience anyway.”  
  
“I can do it,” Ashur insisted.   
  
Beryl shrugged. “I'm not saying you can't. I'm just saying we don't know what's in these woods and you've got city boy written all over you.”   
  
“He's right,” Alaris said, her frown easing. “Better to do anything in pairs.” She pulled several water canteens out of her saddlebags. “Fill as many as you can. If this heat persists, we might die of dehydration before we make it to Darthen.”   
  
Beryl tipped his fingers to his forehead. “Yes, milady.”He caught the canteens one-handed, following them up with a grin.   
  
Ashur rolled his eyes and gathered up the rest of the canteens from their party, until his arms were overfull. If anything were to attack them, it would be up to Beryl, which was fortunate since he sadly had more fighting experience than Ashur. But he didn't need the brat for a fight. He needed the brat for a purpose that was yet unknown.   
  
He had to come up with a plan and soon.   
  
He and Ashur plunged into the forest to the tune of Alaris bitching out Sleet and said thief responding with sarcastic wit. If Iblion had anything to offer, Beryl didn't hear it. By Aesir! If he hadn't known Sleet to be thoroughly in Frost's court, he'd have called all that tension sexual. Though the idea of that made him shudder.   
  
He liked women well enough just that not that particular woman.   
  
“I'm not stupid, you know.”   
  
Beryl blinked, turning to look at Ashur. “Did I say you were?” he asked, not sure he liked the kid's belligerent tone.   
  
“You didn't have to.” Ashur picked his way across the ground, off-balance thanks to the armload of canteens. “What do you want?”   
  
“Want?”  
  
“I can't think of a single reason you would volunteer to accompany me otherwise,” Ashur said, his gaze on the floor but his tone cutting. “So I've come to the conclusion that you want something.”   
  
Smart boy. But then, considering his lack of athletic ability, intelligence was probably his talent. What else would he have to work with?  
  
“What do you think it is?”   
  
“I don't know.” Ashur frowned, cutting a look at Beryl. “Because I still don't get why you're with us. Just for Frost? That doesn't make any sense.”   
  
Beryl shrugged. “It's the truth. Frost might just be some god's host to you, but he's important to Kurnugia and the council.”   
  
“Important,” Ashur repeated in a flat tone. “For a group of what I imagine to be thieves and liars and murderers? I doubt it.”   
  
Oh, ho. Was Ashur growing some backbone? Good for him.   
  
“Believe what you will, it makes no difference to me. But it seems our goals align. I want Frost back, you want Balaam defeated,” Beryl replied and then paused, listening for the river Sleet had heard.   
  
There was a trickling of water, but it was faint. He turned toward the mountains that loomed over the forest. Perhaps it was a spring. Underbrush crackled as Ashur followed him.   
  
“I don't care about Balaam,” Ashur replied, and his tone was soft, almost scared. “Adair was the one who wanted to join this stupid quest.”   
  
Beryl fought down a smile. “Your brother?”   
  
“Yes. Frost showed up in Nename. Killed Fenrir and took Adair.” Ashur inhaled sharply. “Iblion can tell that he's alive, but nothing else. Why Frost took him, we don't know.”   
  
Beryl weighed his options and decided it was the worth the risk. “Frost wants Sleet,” he said. “Maybe that's why.”   
  
Ashur drew to a halt, staring at Beryl. “He's had numerous chances to snatch Sleet. Why didn't he take them?”   
  
“I don't know.” Beryl shrugged again, affecting nonchalance as he kept up the pace, forcing Ashur to start walking again. “But Frost has always been obsessed with Sleet, much to my annoyance. It stands to reason he still is.”   
  
“But Balaam would kill him,” Ashur protested.   
  
“He hasn't yet,” Beryl pointed out. He hadn't exactly been here from the beginning but Sleet wasn't a skilled fighter and he was resistant to Erebus. Either luck had kept him alive, or design. Beryl was favoring the latter.   
  
Frost wanted Sleet but he would bet all of his funds that Balaam needed Sleet for some reason. Perhaps the same reason he'd taken Adair. Only Adair wasn't proving cooperative.   
  
This was suddenly making sense and Beryl wasn't sure he liked the sound of it. Part of him warred with telling Ashur what he'd reasoned. Another, more rational side of him knew he'd better keep that kernel to himself. For now.   
  
“Taking Adair was probably opportunity. And now he has a hostage he knows he can use against you,” Beryl said.   
  
Ashur gave him a sour look. “You sound like you know what he's doing.”   
  
“That's what I'd do,” Beryl replied and frowned as the ground grew soft beneath his feet. Either it had rained or water was nearby. “I think like a criminal because, by your definition, I am one. Comes with the territory.”   
  
Ashur muttered something under his breath but then raised his voice. “Fine. Say you're right. What would be the next step?”   
  
“To give up what I don't want in favor of what I do.” The sound of water grew louder, less a trickle and more a soft rushing noise.   
  
He pushed through a thick blackberry bush, grimacing at the thorns as they snagged on his clothing, and all but crowed in success as a stream came into view. It wasn't deep, not enough for bathing or swimming, but the current was swift enough that the water should be drinkable. At least, in this, Sleet was right.   
  
“You mean a trade.”   
  
Beryl looked at the boy, gesturing for him to hand over some of the canteens. “Trade is for merchants. An exchange would be more likely except that I'd want to make sure I'm getting the better end of the deal.”   
  
Ashur frowned, but didn't comment, as though ruminating on what Beryl had told him. They filled the canteens in silence, Beryl crouching carefully on the stream edge as Ashur kept hold of the canteens.   
  
He hoped he had planted a seed, one that would encourage Ashur to come to him rather than the other way around. Perhaps Ashur wouldn't see it as treachery, but as getting his due. Either way, getting Sleet to Frost would be a lot easier if he had help. He would have asked Raven as the mercenary seemed more than willing to be rid of the other thief, but alas, Raven had been left behind.   
  
Now, if this worked, all that remained would be figuring out how to contact Frost. Because Beryl certainly didn't know how to do it and didn't want to rely on either chance or Frost's strange and magnetic draw to Sleet.   
  


***


	42. The Road to Ruin: Chapter Three

Darthen was the first proper city Alaris had seen in weeks and she couldn't quite hide the relief that washed over her. It was a large, sprawling city, unencumbered by walls and in a constant state of growth. It was civilization at last and Alaris couldn't believe how much she had missed such a simple thing.   
  
“We need to stay together,” she said after they sold their horses to a stable outside Darthen, pocketing the coin to use toward their fare across the sea. It wasn't enough, but it was a start. “Hephaestion says that the animus' ship is set to arrive in two days, the seas willing.”   
  
“Then we'll need to amuse ourselves for two days,” Beryl said with a smirk. “Shouldn't be too hard.”   
  
Alaris tossed him a hard look. “And by that I mean, stay out of trouble. We don't have the funds to bail anyone out and I don't need you to continue our quest.”   
  
He curled a lip at her. “Then fortunately for you, I don't get caught. It's Sleet you have to worry about.”   
  
“Um.” The tentative interplay came from Ashur, who seemed to be growing more of a spine as of late. Iblion's teachings were having an effect. “Where is Sleet?”   
  
Alaris ground to a halt and whirled, scanning the crowd for the aforementioned thief. He'd been lingering at the back of their group when they'd entered Darthen, but she couldn't see him now. It didn't help that he was a short brunet and there were always an abundance of those no matter where they were.   
  
She gritted her teeth, pinching the bridge of her nose. Should she be surprised he'd run off the first chance he'd gotten? She ought to keep the brat on a leash.   
  
“He'll be back,” Iblion said and Alaris gave him a startled look, for the demi-deity was paler than usual, his lips drawn thin.   
  
_He is stretched, Alaris. He needs to return to Elysium,_ Hephaestion informed her. _We were not meant to exist for so long without our tether. Much longer, and the consequences may be something we cannot repair._  
  
Her eyes narrowed. “ _What do you mean?”_ she asked her anima before directing her attention back to Iblion. “What makes you think he's coming back? The coward probably took the opportunity to abandon us.”   
  
“If he were going to do so, there have been multiple opportunities,” Iblion replied and he pressed a palm to his temple, wincing as though the beaming sunlight hurt him. “Why would he wait until Darthen? Why would he go off on his own knowing the danger he's in?”   
  
Ashur scoffed, folding his arms. “We're the ones in danger. Sleet's the one sleeping with enemy.”   
  
Yes. That was a comment Alaris didn't want to touch with a ten foot pole. Sleet's relationship with Frost was both none of her business and infuriating to consider. That Sleet hadn't already taken the hand extended to him both surprised Alaris and relieved her. One less weapon for Balaam to wield.   
  
She still wondered, however, when Sleet's priorities could change. When he would choose Frost over their company and destruction over saving the world.   
  
“You have a point,” Alaris said and looked heavenward, searching for patience. _Hephaestion, can you find him?  
  
“Yes. He's making no efforts to conceal himself from our ability to locate him.”_   
  
Alaris frowned. _Is it because he doesn't know how or he doesn't care if we find him?  
  
“You'll have to ask him that._” There was an exasperated edge to her animus' voice. “ _And in answer to your prior question, we fear that an extended leave from Elysium without his tether will result in Iblion losing his immortal status.”_   
  
Her eyes widened. “You mean he'll turn human?” she demanded, too late to realize she'd spoken aloud.   
  
Iblion, obviously, knew she spoke of him because his gaze instantly shifted her direction.   
  
“ _That is our fear. Whether or not Balaam is aware of this, we do not know. What happens to Iblion's abilities is not known either.”_  
  
Alaris palmed her face, her innards squirming with a mixture of dread and exasperation. Great. More complications. Just what she needed.   
  
“Their fear is for naught. I am fine,” Iblion said, hands jerking into fists at his side. “There is nothing to be concerned about. We must, instead, focus our efforts on our unknown anima and locating our errant one.”   
  
“I'm not so sure we should be bothering,” Ashur offered and then ducked his head when Alaris looked at him. “If he doesn't want to accompany us, why waste the energy dragging him along?”  
  
“Because if he's not with us, then he'll be with Balaam and that's a complication none of us need. Balaam is powerful enough as it is.” Alaris turned around, planting her hands on her hips as she surveyed the crowd, thinner than she would have expected but at least passable. “We need to find somewhere to stay, preferably cheap and close to the docks.”   
  
“What about Sleet?” Iblion asked.   
  
She glanced at him, disliking the ashen complexion. He needed to rest but was too proud to ask for it. “I'll find him,” she said. “You get us a room and inquire at the docks. Then I'll find you.” She pulled out the pouch containing the entirety of their funds, paltry in comparison to their needs. “Try to be thrifty.”   
  
“I think I can manage,” the demi-deity drawled.   
  
“Then I'll see what I can do about acquiring more coin,” Beryl said with a smirk, folding his arms across his chest. “Unless you know of a more legal option?”   
  
Alaris sighed. “Just don't get caught.”   
  
“I don't need you to tell me that,” Beryl said with a cheeky grin. He sketched a salute and vanished into the crowd.   
  
_Do not trust his motivations_ , Hephaestion warned. _There is nothing binding him to our quest. I must question his desire to be helpful._   
  
Alaris sighed. Sleet, at least, was honest in his reluctance and selfishness. Beryl was the true mystery here.   
  
“ _So long as he does what he's told, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. It's not like Balaam needs to spy on us. He can find us and he knows our plans are to take him down. What more could Beryl give him that he can't take for himself?”_   
  
Her point made, Alaris returned her attention to Ashur and an increasingly pale Iblion. She frowned.   
  
“Are you sure you will be all right?” she asked.   
  
“I think we can handle securing rooms for the night,” Ashur said. Iblion said nothing, his face darkening.   
  
Alaris bit back a sigh. “Very well. I will find you later then.”   
  
Right now, finding Sleet would be her first priority.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
He could be on his way to Gwartney right now. It would be easy enough. He could go back through the gates, appropriate one of the horses they'd left at the stables, and ride south. He could do so without looking back. There was nothing stopping him. No one had noticed him slip away.   
  
Yet, here he was, in the market district, flitting through the crowd and leaving many pockets and pouches lighter in his wake. His own grew heavier. That, at least, felt normal.   
  
The voice in his head was silent. Sleet didn't stop to question why. He was merely grateful for the quiet.   
  
Why was he still here? That was a question Sleet couldn't answer. He felt no loyalty to Alaris, but he was here to acquire needed coin. He could lie to himself, claim it was to recoup his own losses, but he didn't need that much. The wiser course would be to head toward Gwartney.   
  
Fuck Alaris and fuck Frost and disappear into the sunset. There had to be some way to go into hiding, conceal himself until the war ended, with whatever outcome might come.   
  
Was he that kind of coward? Sleet thought he might be.   
  
When it came down to it, it wasn't that much of a choice at all. Pick the matter of your death, Sleet, he told himself. The world was going to end and he had to choose a side and neither were appealing save that Frost, at least, was giving him a choice.   
  
Sleet used some of his new coin to acquire a new pair of boots and a meat pie from a vendor. He consumed it too quickly to taste, licking his fingers clean, and idly picked a pouch from a passing stranger, deep in conversation with his friend. He used that coin to replace his daggers, and continued.   
  
There was plenty to be found here in the market district. Plenty to buy, plenty to sell, plenty to steal. Sleet's pouches grew heavier, he replaced everything that had been lost or stolen. He bought a new tunic, a new pair of gloves, and found himself lingering over a set of herbs before he realized he was considering them for Tungsten.   
  
He moved on.   
  
_Sleet._  
  
Erebus' voice, for once, was oddly hesitant. Less intrusive. Somber even.   
  
' _What?_ ' he demanded as he passed a jeweler, hawking rows and rows of necklaces, the metal gleaming in the afternoon sun.   
  
He thought about the necklace he wore, the one Frost had stolen for him and Sleet had yet to lose. Not even the Kurai had taken it from him.   
  
_If Tawnry had not been destroyed and all of this had never happened, what would you be doing right now?_  
  
Sleet frowned. ' _What the fuck kind of question is that?'_  
  
 _A sincere one_ , Erebus replied, still in that subdued tone. He wasn't needling Sleet or making a sarcastic comment for once either.   
  
His brow furrowed and Sleet merged back into the crowd, letting his feet do the guiding as he considered the question. _'Tawnry was getting boring. I would have left eventually.'  
  
To do what?_   
  
Sleet blinked. ' _What do you mean?'_  
  
Erebus lapsed into silence and that was more than a little unnerving. Usually, his silence was brought on by irritation and disgust. This was something altogether different.   
  
' _Oy, you started this,'_ Sleet snapped, coming to a stop in the middle of the road and being jostled by more than a few pedestrians. ' _Explain the question._ '  
  
 _Tungsten intended to be a master mage_ , Erebus said as though Sleet didn't know that. _Alaris was set to eventually take over Hephaestion's temple. Raven was caring for his sister. Malach would have been chieftain._  
  
' _Your point?_ ”'Sleet demanded, though there was a niggling within him, a sudden increase in his heartbeat that meant he knew exactly where Erebus was going with this.   
  
_You seem to lack ambition. Motivation. Direction. I don't understand why you do anything that you do_ , Erebus said, sounding honestly perplexed and exhausted. _Do you know what you want?_  
  
What he wants is for the world to go back to normal. Sure, living the hard life as a thief on the barest edge of existence wasn't much to aim for, but it was his life. His choice. And yes, he realized that option was no longer available to him but he didn't like what the universe had left him with and he knew that ranting and railing at reality wasn't helping.   
  
_Didn't you ever dream of doing anything when you were a kid?_  
  
Other than escaping his mother's tight grip? Nope. Sleet had taken the first chance he could to flee from his mother's arms and high-tailed it out of Toren. He'd headed for the closest piece of civilization and upon learning he had no useful skills, set to thievery. He could read and write, had that going for him, but otherwise, he was useless.   
  
He became a thief because it was exciting and different and just enough danger to get his blood pumping. His mother would have been so disappointed in him and maybe that thought, too, was enough to keep him going. But did he ever lie in bed and dream about something more?   
  
No, he didn't. What did that say about him that he didn't have dreams? Maybe he didn't have the imagination for it? Maybe he really was that empty inside.   
  
Sleet folded his arms, a shiver creeping down his spine.   
  
A hand landed on his shoulder. Sleet jumped and spun around, dagger leaping into his hand and heart crawling into his throat. He felt the fire boiling within him before he had the sense to call for it, relieved that it at least obeyed his unconscious will.   
  
Alaris stood there, frowning at him, a storm building behind her eyes. “I'd ask what you are doing, but it's painfully obvious.”   
  
Well, well. Raven wasn't here so Alaris had to do her own busy work. How plebian of her.   
  
Sleet's eyes narrowed and he sheathed his dagger. “You should have said you were looking for me. I would have come running.” He smirked. ' _Thanks for the warning, asshole._ '  
  
Erebus, unsurprisingly, had nothing to say in return. It seemed he had said enough.   
  
“I'm not here to drag you back,” Alaris said, her face pinched with displeasure. “I don't have the energy to spare for that right now. I just want to know if I should bother keeping track of you anymore.”   
  
Sleet blinked, momentarily taken aback before annoyance replaced it. He unsnapped the heaviest pouch on his belt and held it out to her, the jingle of coins audible even above the crowds.   
  
“I suppose you don't need this then,” he said. “I went through all the effort of getting it, too. But if I'm no longer needed, than neither is my coin.”   
  
It was Alaris' turn to look surprised, though she quickly buried it behind a scowl. “You expect me to believe that you came out here for our sake.”   
  
“You can believe whatever you damn well want,” Sleet retorted and drew his hand back, but not fast enough to prevent Alaris from snatching the pouch from him. “And just so you know, I stole all of that.”  
  
“I assumed as much.” Alaris weighed the bag before it disappeared within her robes. “Desperate times call for desperate measures. I'm sure you picked your targets carefully.”   
  
Sleet almost laughed at her. But since she was being polite, for Alaris, he held back. “Right,” he drawled. “Can I go now?”   
  
“Go where?”  
  
“Away?” He shrugged. “I'd be one less headache for you.”   
  
Alaris shook her head, swiping the back of her hand across her forehead. “I wish that were the truth. You can leave if you wish. Or you can return with me. The choice is yours.”   
  
She didn't wait for him to agree or disagree, instead turning on a heel and pushing through the crowd and away from him.   
  
“Just like that?” he called after her, a squirming sensation in his innards.   
  
“Yes.”   
  
Sleet stared at her retreating back. ' _If I walk away, do you come with me?'_  
  
Erebus sighed. _Yes.  
  
'There's no way for you to break the bond?'   
  
None._   
  
Damn it.   
  
Sleet broke into a jog, attempting to catch up to Alaris. “I'm coming with you.”   
  
Alaris didn't break stride but she did acknowledge him. “Why?”   
  
“I don't like the alternative,” Sleet replied, falling into step beside her. It wasn't quite the truth, but it would do for now. Maybe he didn't know what he wanted from the future, but he could start looking. Now was as good a time as any.   
  
Besides, if Balaam had his way, there might not be a future to reach for.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
Beryl spent twenty minutes obeying. He pilfered and procured enough coin to get Alaris and her company through the next couple of days as well as acquiring passage to Sanjara. With that bit of business taken care of, Beryl set off for the Peddler's Market.   
  
Contrary to its designation, the Market wasn't for ordinary people. It was not a collection of stalls and shops for the masses to spend their hard-earned coin. It was Corynth's version of Kurnugia, albeit much reduced with less influence. It centered around Darthen's Thieves Guild, which answered only to the Lord of Kurnugia.   
  
In other words, it answered to Frayr. Except that Frayr was missing, the powers-that-be were bickering over what that meant, and Beryl found himself on an increasingly pointless quest.   
  
It had been months since Beryl had contact with Kurnugia. Months since Merith sent him to look for Frost in a desperate bid to restore order to Kurnugia. He hoped that there was word of what had happened in his absence. He hoped Merith sent good news.   
  
He hoped to find a good reason for following Sleet around and waiting for Frayr to regain his senses.   
  
Unlike the Market District, Peddler's Market was quiet, less traveled. The streets held people, but they weren't choked with crowds. Beryl couldn't hide among the masses, not that he needed to. He would not be stealing from these strangers, not only because he didn't need to, but because any one of them could be a member of the guild.   
  
One did not pickpocket a member of the guild. Even if one was the second in command to the head of the underworld.   
  
The guild itself was a nondescript two-story structure in the center of the market. No flags or hanging signs identified it, nor were the doors guarded. Ignorant travelers rarely ventured to the Peddlers Market and those that did were swiftly informed of their mistake. They left with their lives and were grateful for it.   
  
Beryl walked in the front door as though he belonged and wasn't challenged for it. The lobby was clean, barely decorated, and several closed doors were all that gave testament to there being more in the building. Here, in Darthen, the underworld didn't hide. They had no reason to do so. As long as they kept their business to the shadows, the local law ignored them.   
  
Beryl chose the door on the far right and started to descend a steep set of stairs, lit by a string of tiny lanterns. He could hear muffled voices that grew louder as he reached the bottom, and increased in volume the moment he opened the lower door. Thick wood scraped the flooring as he pulled it open and stepped into the first anteroom of the Peddler's Market.   
  
Here were the guards, two women standing to either side of the door, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting wanderers and known by those who'd been here before.   
  
“Peace,” Beryl said, throwing up his hands before he even spotted them, though he knew they were there. “I am--”  
  
“We know who you are,” a voice overrode his own and the two women stepped into view, one of them a tall dark-blond and the other with an eyepatch and a smile that would have made her a perfect match for Raven.   
  
“We would be a poor excuse for a Guild if we didn't know you were here the moment you walked through the gate,” said the other, the blond.   
  
Beryl lowered his hands. “And yet, such a friendly greeting.”   
  
The two exchanged glances. “We aren't here because we're friendly,” said the other with a growing smirk.   
  
“We're not going to bar your way either. You are welcome here.” Blondie gave a little chuckle as though she knew something he didn't. “Though for how long, well, that's up to you, I suppose.”   
  
Beryl's eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”   
  
“We're just the guards. We don't know anything. Anything at all.”   
  
The two women stepped aside, movements oddly in sync, and it was Blondie who gestured for him to pass her, while the other idly palmed the hilt of her blade.   
  
“Have fun,” Blondie said with a wiggle of her fingers.   
  
A shiver crept down Beryl's spine. His frown didn't waver, not even as he passed them and headed for the last downward staircase to the Market. Something about that conversation didn't sit right with him.   
  
Noise surrounded him the moment he opened the last door and stepped into the Market. Like most guilds, the Peddlers Market was an underground city for the shadows. The Market was different from Kurnugia in that it was actually built underground, rather than just existing in a huge cavern.   
  
Peddler's Market was a long, sprawling series of interconnected rooms, each room serving as a shop of some kind. Residences formed the outer ring of rooms so that only one door was necessary, but the other nine rings were various types of eateries, shops, and congregational areas, including a “library.”   
  
Dead center of the maze-like madness was the guild itself, the only two-story structure in all of the Market.   
  
No one paid Beryl a second glance of attention, which he was glad for. Some of the tension eased off his shoulders. The Market was not Kurnugia, but it was the closest he'd been to home in quite some time. Being around Alaris and her company was not at all relaxing.   
  
Beryl dug out his badge, prepared to show it at the guild's gate, but he was waved inside by the attendant. It helped, he supposed, that he just had one of those faces.   
  
The noise of the Market dropped to a dull roar as he stepped into the guild. While the rest of the Market was open to any man or woman considered a member of the shadows, the guild itself was restricted to those of rank. If rank could even be assigned to a motley collection of thieves and other undesireds.   
  
“I knew it was only a matter of time before the underwarden would step through my doors.”   
  
Beryl paused, recognizing the voice with no small amount of distaste. He had never liked the warden of Peddler's Market, though Frayr had remarked that Josef had his uses.   
  
“So it would appear,” Beryl said, careful to keep his tone even as he turned to face Josef, the thin, reedy man stepping out of a side hallway, a smaller boy keeping to his shadow. “It seems there are some rumors that require my attention.”   
  
Josef smirked and that, in itself, was a warning. “It's no mere rumor,” the once-great thief said, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his light robe, not that it meant he was less dangerous. “It is fact. Surely you've noticed the snickering behind your back?”  
  
Irritation bubbled up and Beryl swallowed it back down. “I don't know what you mean.” He folded his arms, frown deepening. “I came here for news from Merith.”   
  
“Merith is dead. An accident, so I'm told. Riordan rules Kurnugia now.”   
  
It felt like a punch to the sternum and if Beryl hadn't planted his feet, he would have staggered. “You lie.”   
  
Josef's lips curled into a genuine smile with edges of his teeth. “Do I?” He unfolded his arms, snapping his fingers. The boy behind him produced a folded missive, handing it to Josef with a bowed head.   
  
Josef patted his pale hair and sent the boy back with an impatient flick of his wrist and the child returned to the shadows. Thief in training perhaps. Even Josef knew a successor would be needed eventually, though it was unlike Josef to loosen the tight grip he kept on the Market.   
  
“I received this contact three weeks ago,” Josef said, eyes flicking to Beryl with triumph before he unfolded the parchment carefully, as though savoring each fold. “It announces Riordan's official ascension to rulership of Kurnugia, outlines the requirements of my continued patronage to Kurnugia, and invites me to either dispute or decline should I feel the need.”   
  
Josef tossed the paper toward Beryl where it slapped to the ground at his feet. He made no effort to pick it up, recognizing a power play when he saw one.   
  
“Of course, since I never liked our Lord Frayr, I have no interest in disputing.” Josef tilted his head. “And Riordan offers terms that I simply can't refuse.”   
  
There was a sound in Beryl's ears, a combination of glass breaking and tides hitting the shore and he wondered if that was the sound of everything he worked for crashing and burning. Merith would have to be dead before he'd allow Riordan to take over. Not just Merith! More than half of Kurnugia was loyal to Frayr. More than half of Kurnugia and at the very least, three of the five guilds scattered around Lieve.   
  
Beryl's hands clenched into fists. “How long?” he demanded and found himself, to his horror, crouching to pick up the folded missive.   
  
There it was, the seal of Kurnugia, stamped on the top center of the document. He could see where the waxy stamp had been broken to open the missive in the first place. Sure, it was possible Riordan had stolen the seal from Merith to send out a false announcement, but not even he was so foolish as to claim a throne that wasn't technically his.   
  
And there they were, at the bottom, the signatures of Frayr's cabinet. The surviving members, Beryl realized, as four of the seven were well-known followers of Riordan and Beryl's name was missing. But then, with seven of the eight, Riordan wouldn't need Beryl's acknowledgment.   
  
“Long enough,” Josef said, and he laughed. “I'm sure there's a missive floating around, Riordan's official invitation for you to join him, but since no one knows where you are...” He trailed off, his meaning clear.   
  
“I won't receive it,” Beryl murmured, the words blurring in front of him, anger making him tremble.   
  
Merith was dead. Merith and Frayr's closest advisors. Beryl's friends. There was nothing left for him in Kurnugia. His properties, his vaults, had probably already been claimed. Riordan's invitation would be a farce, even Beryl knew it. In all likelihood, Riordan would have quietly arranged for Beryl to disappear.   
  
Obviously, he was not at all concerned with the possibility of Frayr returning.   
  
This was all Sleet's fault. The paper crinkled in Beryl's grasp.   
  
“You can look on the bright side,” Josef said, clasping his hands behind his back. “You no longer have to concern yourself with chasing Frayr all over Lieve. For that, I almost pity you.”   
  
“Fuck your pity,” Beryl snapped, shoving the crumpled paper into a pouch. “And when Riordan destroys everything, we'll see if you're still laughing then.” He whirled on a heel, stomping toward the door.   
  
There was no reason for him to remain in the Market. In fact, he now had to be doubly concerned, watching for an assassin in the dark.   
  
Josef chuckled. “Good luck,” he called after Beryl, nothing in his tone hinting of sincerity. “And I do hope you find Frayr, if only to inform him that his services are no longer required.”   
  
Beryl ignored Josef, making a quick exit from the guild. He could see it, now that he was looking for it. Those that recognized him, watching him walk past with knowledge in their eyes. No wonder the two guards had been so amused.   
  
Finding Frayr was pointless. Returning to Kurnugia was pointless.   
  
Everything about his existence had become pointless.   
  
What in Asherah's name was he supposed to do now?  
  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ends the chapters that I had previously written. We're now entering unwritten territory. I will definitely update once a month, usually around the beginning of the month. I will try to update more often if I can get the chapters written faster. 
> 
> Until then, feedback is always welcome and appreciated. I'd love to know what you think. :)


	43. The Road to Ruin - Chapter Four

Darthen was hot and humid and smelled of salt. The wind that came in from the great sea was thick and wet, but Ashur didn't mind. He rather enjoyed it. Part of him yearned to hit the shore, the sandy beach, and wade into the tide. Now wasn't the time for such trivialities, but he'd always wanted to visit the coast for precisely that reason.   
  
He never thought that the potential end of the world would bring him closer to a lifelong dream. Even if he would only see the beach in passing.   
  
Behind him, Iblion lagged again.   
  
Ashur frowned, pausing to let the deity catch up. Here, the crowds were less thick, turning to a different flavor, but Iblion seemed to be having trouble. The deity was paler than usual, the lines in his face deeper. He always had a taste of magic about him, too, but as of late, that felt thinner. More strained.   
  
“Are you all right?” Ashur asked for what felt like the fifth time.   
  
“Fine,” Iblion replied, the word bitten out, his eyes unfocused as they searched the crowd as though unable to find Ashur before wobbling his direction.   
  
Ashur's frown deepened. Questions crowded on his tongue but he had the feeling Iblion wouldn't answer them. And it would only irritate the deity to ask if he was sure. Because Iblion certainly didn't look well.   
  
Thank Aesir that they were nearing a collection of inns. This sort of establishment dominated the waterfront, which made sense as sailors and visitors coming in from the docks would be weary. Their first thought would be for food and rest. Ashur hoped they could find one within their meager budget, though he was sure Sleet and Beryl would be fixing that potential issue.   
  
“We should pick an inn,” Iblion said as though trying to distract Ashur. “Alaris has given us a task after all.”   
  
Ashur nodded. His gaze swung from one brightly colored sign to another, all of the wooden images swaying in the breeze. They had interesting names like the Siren's Call and Fisherman's Wharf and Sandy Shores. He supposed it didn't really matter though the one calling itself the Mermaid's Bosom made him chuckle. And they could all use a little hilarity right now.   
  
Mermaid's Bosom it was.   
  
Ashur took Iblion's elbow, trying not to frown at how thin the deity felt, though visibly his mass hadn't changed. It was as though his physical self was getting... less solid? Ashur wasn't a scientist. He didn't know what to call it.   
  
“Are you serious?” Iblion asked.   
  
Ashur forced a grin onto his face as they got closer to the door, merrily adorned with seashells and bits of seaweed. “You didn't indicate a preference.”   
  
Iblion muttered something under his breath, but he didn't protest any further. Ashur pushed open the door, hinges creaking and stepped into the welcome cool of the foyer. It wasn't nearly as crowded as Ashur would have expected, with only one patron sitting in a chair while a woman stood behind the counter, flipping through a book of some kind.   
  
“Welcome the Mermaid's Bosom,” she said with no enthusiasm, one hand dipping into a bowl of some kind of dried fruit. “Our room rates start at two copper per night with specials running by the week, should you be so inclined.”   
  
Ashur approached the desk, though part of his attention was stolen by the décor. Poorly painted renditions of mermaids graced the walls, bright splashes of color against the dark wood. Strings of shells dipped from the ceilings like streamers and someone had strung up fishing net in the corners, other beach-themed designs hanging from them like cheap chandeliers. He'd all but tripped on the mat beneath him, woven of thick straw.   
  
“What's the special?” Ashur asked, mentally calculating how much coin did they have. “And how many beds per room?”  
  
The hostess finally looked up from her book, blinking bright blue eyes at them. “Two,” she answered, her gaze traveling from Ashur to Iblion and back again. “Ten copper for a week's day. Your, um, friend doesn't look well.”   
  
Ashur glanced at Iblion, noting the beads of sweat on the deity's brow. “Iblion?”   
  
There was a glazed look in Iblion's eyes. He stood there, not so much as blinking, and he didn't respond to Ashur's question.   
  
He gripped Iblion's arm, the deity feeling colder and thinner than before. “Iblion!”   
  
There was a pulse, a shock of something unpleasant against Ashur's fingers and then Iblion's legs gave way. Ashur struggled to catch the larger, heavier man as he crumpled without making a sound.   
  
The woman behind the counter gasped as Ashur grunted, hitting the ground with Iblion's upper body more or less cradled across his knees. He pressed a hand to Iblion's forehead, feeling it flushed as though with fever, high dots of pink in the deity's cheeks. But his throat and neck and bare arms felt cool to the touch, almost like snow.   
  
“What's wrong with him?” the woman demanded and Ashur didn't know if he should call her tone fearful or alarmed.   
  
“I don't know,” Ashur said, groping for a lie that wouldn't frighten her further. “We're both exhausted and we've been traveling for a week. I think he just needs rest.” His heart pounded in his chest, trying to crawl from his throat. “Can we have a room?”   
  
“Is it contagious?”   
  
“No. It's not a sickness. I swear.” Ashur struggled for his pouch, knowing he had at least enough coin in there to cover a room for the day. Alaris would have to come back and procure more rooms for a longer period of time later. “I have coin.”   
  
The hostess hesitated   
  
“Please,” Ashur added, with the best begging look he could muster. It always worked on Adair.   
  
“Of course. We welcome customers no matter how tired they are.” The man, whom Ashur thought to be a patron, had stood and now approached Ashur and Iblion. “Lynn, get the key for room three, please.”   
  
“Yes, sir.” Now she was quick to comply, rooting beneath the desk for wherever they kept the keys. “What about-?”  
  
The man crouched next to Ashur. “I'll get them signed in. You look as though you could use some help, son.”   
  
Gratitude flushed through Ashur. He managed a thin smile. “Yes, sir.” It never hurt to be polite. “My uncle's a lot heavier than I am.” Did he have too much pride to play the helpless card? No, he didn't. Ashur was well aware how young he looked and if it meant they wouldn't question him too much, all the more for it.   
  
“Your uncle, hmm?” Dark eyes turned soft with compassion.   
  
Ashur nodded. “Yes. My aunt will be meeting us soon. And my brothers. We were supposed to get rooms while we wait to depart for Sanjara.” The lies mingled with truth, spilling faster than Ashur could keep track of them. All of those fantasy stories he'd read suddenly came into great use. “I hope nothing happens to them either.”   
  
“Two more rooms then,” the proprietor murmured as Lynn came around the counter, handing him a key. “Luckily, we do have three available. Come on then. Let's get your uncle up.”   
  
Together, Ashur and the proprietor managed to get Iblion off the floor. Ashur tried to bear most of the deity's weight, but between his armor, weapons, and greater bulk, it was not easy. He required more help just to get Iblion up the three stairs onto the second landing, and down the hall to room three. The proprietor helped wrangle Iblion onto the bed, the deity not so much as blinking or making a sound.   
  
If not for the fact Ashur could hear him breathing and see his fingers occasionally twitch, he'd believe Iblion to be dead. It was unsettling.   
  
The proprietor pressed the key into his hand. “I'll have Lynn bring up some water, for drinking and to help bring down that fever.”   
  
“Thank you,” Ashur said and pulled out his pouch, handing over a couple silver coins. It would be enough to cover a few rooms for a few nights. He would let Alaris decide if they'd need more. “Will this do?”   
  
“More than, son. If you need anything else, just ask for Old Hercy, all right? I'll be happy to help.” Hercy smiled, clapped him on the shoulder, and took his leave.   
  
Well. It seemed there was some decency left in the world after all. Considering what Ashur had seen since leaving Nename, he'd begun to think saving it was a foolish venture.   
  
He sighed and looked at Iblion. The deity still hadn't moved and his ever-present sense of power was no longer tangible. If Ashur touched his skin, he could feel it, but it no longer radiated outward. This couldn't be good.   
  
He set to removing Iblion's boots and armors, trying to make him more comfortable. The complicated buckles and clasps just about threw him for a loop.   
  
A knock on the door announced Lynn's arrival as she brought him a bowl, a pitcher of water, a cup, and some cloths. She wouldn't come close, however, setting the items on a table near the door and immediately excusing herself. She probably feared sickness still.   
  
After she left, Ashur slumped into the chair by the bed, staring at Iblion. What the hell was he supposed to do? He couldn't fix this. Iblion wasn't his anima. He had no connection to the deity. And worst of all, he had no way to contact Alaris except to plunge into Darthen and look for her. He didn't dare risk leaving Iblion alone.   
  
By Aesir, this was a mess.   
  
Ashur drew in a ragged ventilation and dampened a cloth, placing it on Iblion's forehead. It was all he could do.   
  
He prayed Alaris would find Sleet and then find Ashur in turn. Iblion's current condition didn't bode well for anyone.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
Hephaestion's directions led them straight to the wharf and a string of inns with colorful names that made Sleet snicker and Alaris shake her head.   
  
_I am concerned_ , Hephaestion said. _Iblion's signature has grown unstable. I can barely sense him._   
  
Alaris frowned. ' _What does that mean?'  
  
I am afraid to contemplate._   
  
“So which one do you think they picked?” Sleet asked, sounding far more jovial than she had ever heard the thief speak to her. “Whistling Wind? Twinkling Tides? They like alliteration around here, don't they?”   
  
Alaris cast him an askance look. “I find myself surprised that you know what alliteration is.”   
  
“My mother's a teacher, or didn't she mention that?” Sleet raised a brow at her before shrugging. “There's a lot about me you don't know. I can't decide if I should take that personal or not.”   
  
Damn. He was being almost pleasant. She didn't know what had caused his change of heart and hoped it would stick around. Or that he wasn't trying some new game.   
  
' _Can you tell which building he is in_?' Alaris asked, ignoring the question of Sleet for now. There were other matters of more importance.   
  
There is a sense of frustration and disappointment. _No. I cannot. Perhaps if I joined you on the mortal plane, I might be able to pinpoint his location._   
  
“Sleet, can you see somewhere private where Hephaestion can put in an appearance?” Alaris asked, already glancing around her to find an alley or something similar. But the buildings pressed so closely together, wall to wall, that there were none to be found.   
  
There was no answer.   
  
Alaris chewed on her bottom lip to keep from growling aloud. Sleet had vanished yet again. This was an irritating habit of his. If she thought it would do her any good, she'd reprimand him for it. But what was the point?   
  
She rubbed her forehead. Nothing to do now but search inn by inn. There was only, what, seven in immediate sight. How many more could there be? Better start at the beginning.   
  
Hephaestion remained silent, bound by his own inability to search.   
  
Alaris inquired at first Fisherman's Wharf and Siren's Song, receiving a negative each time. Iblion was distinctive enough that he would be recognized. Ashur, unfortunately, could blend into a crowd. Her frustration grew.   
  
But it wasn't until she stepped out of the Twinkling Tides that she heard someone shout her name. It was Sleet, waving at her from across the way, barely seen amid the crowd of people.   
  
“Where have you been?” she demanded.   
  
“Looking for Ashur,” the thief retorted with a frown. “Isn't that why we're here. I found him, by the way. No need to thank me.”   
  
“Lead the way,” Alaris said with a gesture. Which was worse, she wondered. The waspish comments or the sullen disregard?   
  
Sleet whirled on a heel and headed straight for the Mermaid's Bosom, holding open the door and gesturing her inside. It was not the place that would have been Alaris' first choice or second or third, but as long as it was comfortable, she would not complain.   
  
“And just so you know,” Sleet continued, keeping his voice oddly soft. “You're Ashur's aunt, I'm his brother and so is Beryl.”   
  
Alaris blinked. “What?”   
  
“Just go with it. I'll explain later.” Sleet planted a smile on his face, directing it toward the young woman behind the counter. “I found her. What room number was it again?”   
  
“Three,” she answered without looking up from her book. “You and your brother will be in room four. Don't lose our key, either.”   
  
“I would never,” Sleet replied, far too cheerfully, and urged Alaris up the three stairs into another hallway. “Lies aside, there's worse news.”   
  
“What could be worse?” Alaris demanded as Sleet stopped in front of room number three and turned the knob, again gesturing her ahead of him.   
  
“That,” he said, and tilted his head toward the room's interior.   
  
Alaris stepped inside, seeing first Ashur perched in a chair and second, Iblion lying on the bed, a washcloth draped over his forehead. Was he ill?  
  
The door closed behind her, Sleet entering as well. Seconds later, Hephaestion phased into existence, his magical energy radiating dismay.   
  
“It is as I feared,” he said, approaching the bed as Ashur scooted back from it, chair legs scraping across the floor.   
  
“What's happened to him?” Alaris crossed the floor, pressing the back of one hand to Iblion's forehead as her other hand tested his wrist for his pulse. She was alarmed by the heat of his head, but the chill of his hand.   
  
Hephaestion's frown deepened. “His tether is fading. The thin connection with Ashur is not enough. He needs to return to Elysium.”   
  
“Then send him back. We don't have to keep him here,” Ashur said, face pinched with worry, the paleness in his cheeks matching Iblion's.   
  
Hephaestion shook his head. “I cannot. That requires conscious will.”   
  
“You can't wake him up?” Alaris asked. It was unsettling how still Iblion was, and the usually present sense of magic around him was gone. She couldn't sense him despite standing right next to him. No wonder Hephaestion couldn't identify which Inn they had chosen.   
  
“No. It is not within my ability. I am not of the first tier.”   
  
Ashur's hands wrung together. “Will he die?”   
  
Hephaestion lowered his head. “I do not know. This is unprecedented.”   
  
“What if Adair were here?” Alaris demanded, releasing her hold on Iblion. “Would that help?”   
  
“Perhaps.” Hephaestion's frown turned contemplative. “The active bond required an exchange of energies, you could call them. While Adair would have drawn on Iblion's power to increase his own, Iblion would have drawn on Adair as a connection to the mortal plane.”   
  
Alaris nodded slowly, an idea forming. “Then we need to get Adair back. Soon.” Because if they did not, Iblion would probably perish and whether that would result in mass destruction or not, Alaris didn't know.   
  
She only knew that they were outnumbered and outmatched and she couldn't afford to lose Iblion.   
  
She turned to Sleet. “Beryl hasn't returned and it seems as though we will need his assistance. Can you find him for me?”   
  
The thief furrowed his brow. “What do you think he can do that you can't?”   
  
“Find Frost.”   
  
Ashur scoffed. “He's with us because he's looking for Frost. What makes you think it's any different now? And why can't you find Frost? He seems to have no problems finding us.”   
  
“And even if you could find him, we're not exactly in a position to take him down,” Sleet continued, a touch of fear in his voice which was not unexpected. “Especially since Raven and the others are on the other side of Lieve!”   
  
Alaris held up a hand, forestalling their arguments. “I'm not denying any of what you're saying. But we'll cross those bridges when we get to them. Right now, getting Beryl here is the first step.”   
  
“What? You think we thieves have some special in-built detector for each other or something?” Sleet demanded, folding his arms.   
  
Asherah save her from stubborn idiots!  
  
“No,” Alaris said with far more patience than she possessed. “But you do know where thieves are apt to go. Start there. Erebus can keep in contact with Hephaestion should we need you to return sooner. Understand?”   
  
If there was ever a time that Sleet chose to obey, now would be it. Alaris prayed that the thief would give in. They didn't have time to argue.   
  
Sleet's eyes narrowed. “Fine,” he spat, stomping with all the noise a man his size could muster. “But this is the last time I play fetch for you.”   
  
The door slammed shut behind him.   
  
“Alaris, we cannot defeat Balaam in our current state,” Hephaestion said.   
  
She briefly closed her eyes, inhaling and exhaling. “I know,” she said, and opened them again, gathering her control. “But we do have something he wants. And maybe that will be enough.”   
  
“Something he... you mean Sleet?” Ashur said, shooting to his feet with a startled look on his face. “You think he'll agree to some kind of trade?”   
  
Hephaestion frowned. “I must agree with Ashur. Why would Balaam return Adair to us knowing that it will only strengthen us?”  
  
“Because he hasn't taken Sleet yet,” Alaris said, and she rubbed her forehead, beginning to pace. “He's had countless opportunities but something prevents him from doing so. I can't pretend to understand what. Perhaps something to do with the disconnect between Frost and Balaam.”   
  
Quiet rippled through the room.   
  
To her surprise, however, it was Ashur who offered a tentative agreement, despite his earlier shock. “You might be right,” he said, though he still looked uneasy. “Beryl said something to the same effect.”   
  
“Beryl?” Alaris' eyes widened. Her mind began racing with theories. Was Beryl working with Frost despite his claims otherwise? Did he know something they didn't?   
  
Ashur's hands twisted together again and he looked away. “He, um, talked to me. In the forest. He acted casual but it felt like it had a purpose.”  
  
Alaris remembered then, how Tungsten had come to her, saying that Beryl was acting odd. She'd dismissed his concerns at the time because the two thieves were always behaving oddly and that was nothing new. But if Beryl had already presented such an idea to Adair, then perhaps this had been Frost's intent all along.   
  
“Alaris, you cannot be seriously considering--”  
  
“I am,” she said and met her anima's gaze. “Sleet has been rebellious at best. I wake everyday expecting that he's gone. But if we can get Adair back, then we have an animus that is willing to work with us.”   
  
“But you give Balaam one that will increase his power.”   
  
Alaris folded her arms. “I'm not so sure. Balaam is not looking for a partnership. He's looking to take all of your abilities. Sleet would be a crutch to him. And don't forget, if we don't have Sleet, then Balaam won't be paying as much attention to us.”   
  
Hephaestion made a noncommittal noise. “You may have a point,” he said at length. “But there is one matter you haven't taken into consideration.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Balaam needs Erebus,” Hephaestion said.   
  
Alaris blinked. “What do you mean?”   
  
The deity sighed, hand tightening around his staff. “Sleet, as an animus, released his essence. But he needs an anima to release the bindings on his form.”   
  
“The reason he took Adair in the first place,” Ashur realized aloud.   
  
“Perhaps,” Hephaestion conceded. “As I said before, Iblion remaining on this plane is unprecedented. Balaam could not have known that Iblion would not return to Elysium. He would have counted on it, meaning Iblion then would have been drawn to Adair. After that, coercion would have only taken a matter of time.”   
  
It was all starting to make a perilous sort of sense. Which was not reassuring at all to Alaris. She huffed frustration. She didn't like how the deities kept giving them information only when it suited and not before. What else did she need to know that they hadn't deigned to tell her?  
  
“You couldn't have mentioned this before?”   
  
Hephaestion shifted. “It had not seemed relevant at the time.”   
  
“Not relevant!” Alaris was ready to spit fire.   
  
“So I guess it boils down to a choice?” Ashur asked, his voice soft but his gaze shifting to Iblion. “We let Iblion die or dissipate or whatever it is. Or we give Sleet to Balaam in the hope that Sleet won't betray us by helping Balaam free himself?”   
  
Alaris forced herself not to glare at her anima, though it was a near thing. It felt like a betrayal, the secrets he kept from her. Weren't they supposed to be in a partnership?   
  
“It's not much of a choice,” Ashur added, hunching his shoulders.   
  
“No, it isn't.” Alaris stepped across the floor, getting close enough to Hephaestion that he could sense her anger and her dismay. “You will tell us everything. Right now.”  
  
Deities didn't squirm. Hephaestion returned her gaze evenly, without a flinch, but there was something in his look that spoke of betrayal on its own.   
  
“Everything is a tall order,” he said.   
  
Alaris inclined her head. “Then lucky we have some time before Sleet returns. Especially since he can't know what we intend.”   
  
Ashur made a small noise, but didn't speak up. Alaris didn't look at him, reserving her attention for her animus, refusing to back down.   
  
Finally, Hephaestion nodded. “Very well. I will tell you what I can.”   
  
It was about time.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
Irritation crawled up his spine and sat on his shoulders like a gargoyle, talons digging into his collar fairing. Sleet scowled to himself as he stomped out of the Mermaid's Bosom and stepped into a mid-afternoon wet with salt and sea.   
  
He had no idea where to begin looking for Beryl. He'd never been to Darthen before, had only heard rumors that there was a guild here, but Sleet wasn't a member. He wouldn't know how to begin becoming one. It had been on his to-ask list with Frost but obviously, they'd never gotten that far.   
  
Just like damn Kurnugia.   
  
Of course, he assumed starting in the shopping district was as good a place as any to check. If Beryl was out there lightening pockets, what better place to be than where the coin was? But finding one green-eyed blond in a sea of people could take hours. Beryl was more likely to find them first.   
  
This was pointless.   
  
_Sleet._  
  
He ignored Erebus. Something was itching at the base of his spine. There was a pressure in his chest.   
  
He looked toward the docks. A few ships were coming in to port. Perhaps one of them was carrying their animus.   
  
Sleet turned down the boardwalk, feet taking him to the line of docks that edged the shore. The smell of salt was thicker here, on his tongue and the back of his throat. He inhaled, enjoying the clean scent of it. He could do without the humidity, but the cool breeze was nice. Lieve's strange weather patterns hadn't hit Darthen yet.   
  
Though judging by the darkness on the horizon, it might be on its way.   
  
At the pier, numerous boats were docked, their sails an array of colors that were almost painful to look at. Some were splashed with symbols, identifying companies, or others had dizzying designs on them. A few captains had chosen to keep their sails plain, but they were few and far between. It was noisier here on the docks, people shouting at each other as cargo was either carried off or loaded on and people were much the same.   
  
Sleet had no clue where to begin in the search for an animus. ' _Can you sense them like the others or am I out of luck?'_   
  
Not at a distance, Erebus admitted, his tone oddly subdued. _But close enough, yes, I can identify someone with an animum bond._   
  
Well, it was better than nothing.   
  
Sleet wandered, slipping easily in and out of the crowd, catching snatches of conversation but nothing important. Whether he found Beryl or the animus, he supposed it didn't matter. That tingle in his spine had increased anew and now his chest had begun to itch. He scratched at it idly, a frown on his lips.   
  
The crowd thinned as he headed further down the pier, toward docks that hadn't been used yet. Sleet hadn't seen an ocean before and he was fascinated by the endless horizon. The water seemed to stretch into eternity.  
  
He walked the length of one, staring down into the deep water. He could see a few fish and stray sands of seaweed, but he couldn't see the bottom. He wondered how cold it was.   
  
The dark cloud on the horizon was getting closer. The wind picked up, or maybe that was just because he was standing on the end of a pier. It was much quieter here, save for the noisy birds above him, grey and white, with orange beaks. The wood creaked and groaned as the water lapped at the moorings.  
  
It was a bit unsettling, actually. Sleet could swim, but he'd never been on a boat or a ship. Having never seen an ocean, this shouldn't come as a surprise.   
  
He wouldn't find the animus here, on an unoccupied pier, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he would find something. Whatever it was that made his spine tingle and his chest ache. Something poured over his skin, an invisible fall of heat as the back of his neck prickled.   
  
He wasn't alone.   
  
Sleet turned around and there was Frost, smirking, his arms folded across his chest. And there was something in his look, something in the air, that made Sleet believe this time would be different.   
  
Erebus had gone silent.   
  


***


	44. The Road to Ruin - Chapter Five

“We meet again,” Frost said, voice nearly a purr. “Then again, I never do find it difficult to locate you.”   
  
Sleet swallowed over a lump in his throat. “So you've said. Though I'm pretty sure you're here for a different reason.”   
  
Frost grinned. “We're of two minds about it.” He dropped his arms, moving closer, and Sleet had nowhere to go but into the water, a prospect he found unappealing.   
  
He held his ground.   
  
“Still disagreeing I take it?” Sleet asked, and something squirmed within his innards as Frost reached for him, leather-gloved finger tracing the curve of his jaw.   
  
“We've compromised.”   
  
Frost's hand lingered, finger stroking down Sleet's neck and lightly skimming his arm before fingers encircled his wrist. His thumb pressed over Sleet's pulse, which had quickened.   
  
Was it fear or arousal or a mixture of both? Sleet was almost afraid to analyze his reaction. He could never look at Frost without being hopelessly aroused. But he remembered Balaam. He remembered what they, as animum, are capable of. And fear wound its way through the desire. It wasn't even the good kind of fear either.   
  
Sleet's breathing hitched. “On what?”   
  
“On what it is we want.” Frost's lips slid into a slow smirk. “Needs will be acquired first.” He pulled Sleet's hand toward his mouth, exhaling warm and wet over his wrist. He missed his gloves.   
  
Sleet stilled, caught between wanting to pull away and wanting to draw closer. “And what do you need?”   
  
Frost chuckled, lips a bare brush over the heel of Sleet's hand. “It is fortunate that, for the moment, our needs intersect.” His gaze caught Sleet's own. “I ask again. I ask for the last time. Come with me.”   
  
Sleet did not like the emphasis. Nor Erebus' continued silence. It was more than disconcerting. He swallowed thickly.   
  
“I--”  
  
“What in Sybaris' name is that!”   
  
The shout made him startle, head whipping to find whoever had cried out like that. There, on a nearby pier, a group of people were staring out over the ocean, pointing. They were talking amongst themselves, some louder than others.   
  
“Never seen anything like it.”   
  
“It's coming too fast.”   
  
“It's not typhoon season! What could it be?”   
  
Sleet followed their gaze, something coiling in his belly with unpleasant tension. The dark shadows on the horizon, that he'd taken to be storms, were roiling closer, churning over themselves. The blackness had spread to a thin line, and it bobbed and weaved.   
  
It was not a storm.   
  
His eyes returned to Frost, whose grip on his wrist had tightened, almost to the point of being uncomfortable.   
  
“I will lay Darthen to waste. I will take what is mine,” Frost said, his teeth nipping at the heel of Sleet's hand as his eyes flashed. His voice took on a deeper tone. “Rest assured, I am through with being nice.” The last was little more than a hiss.   
  
The dock rumbled beneath them. Sleet looked down, eyes widening, as pools of black curled up beneath Frost. He jerked his hand free, stumbling backward as the tendrils of shadow wrapped around Frost.   
  
Brown eyes gleamed with a silver flash before Frost vanished behind the curtain of black. It hung in the air for the space of a second before it suddenly collapsed with the sound of a splash, into a pool of shadow that evaporated.   
  
Frost was gone.   
  
_By the pits of Tarturus!_  
  
Erebus' roar made Sleet startle, almost lose his balance, and fall into the ocean. He jerked away from the edge of the pier, cradling his hand where Frost had kissed him. His skin tingled and burned as though touched by poison.   
  
The air tingled and throbbed before Erebus flashed into existence, not caring that people could have seen him. “He's learned how to block me. Or should I say, the bond in general.”   
  
Sleet blinked. “What?”   
  
Erebus rubbed his forehead, looking pained. “That can only mean one thing. Frost and Balaam have finally bonded.”   
  
“I thought they've been bonded all along?” Sleet demanded, confusion gripping him.   
  
“They have. It's complicated.” Erebus exhaled in frustration, his eyes flashing. “You know they were at odds. But not anymore. Something made them agree. Work together. Like when you finally accepted our bond.”   
  
And what a difference that had made. Anxiety gripped Sleet, turning the churning in his innards into something unpleasant.   
  
“That can't be good,” Sleet said and that was when the wind picked up, slamming against him with all the warmth of a snowball. He shivered and turned back to the horizon, the dark mass of demons getting too close for comfort. “We have to go. Warn Alaris. Do something.” But his feet seemed rooted in place.   
  
Erebus stepped up beside him. “We are not enough to stop him. Not as few as we are. Not with Iblion in his condition.”   
  
“The animus!” Sleet's attention whipped back toward the massive crowd, many people already having begun to flee off the docks and toward land. “Is he--?”  
  
There was a low boom, a ripple in the air. The dock lurched beneath Sleet, water slamming against the moorings. The waves grew higher, white-capped, as though a storm was making landfall. Was this Balaam's doing?  
  
Judging by the grim look on Erebus' face, it was. His hands curled into fists. “He has Sybaris' power,” the demi-deity murmured. “There's nothing we can do.”   
  
There was a ship on the horizon, coming into port. The sails battled against the winds, the hull crashing against the waves. And as Sleet watched, a portion of the cloud broke away, spiraling down toward it.   
  
There was only one reason Balaam would single out a ship. Sleet's only comfort was that taking the anima would not cause any destruction to the town. He said as much.   
  
“You're wrong,” Erebus said, shaking his head. “The discharge will be contained, yes, but the resulting tidal wave will decimate Darthen. Which I'm sure was his intention all along.”   
  
_I will lay Darthen to waste. I will take what is mine._  
  
Frost's words rung heavy in Sleet's ears. Frost's words, with no trace of Balaam in them, save the minute flash of power in his eyes.   
  
He wanted me to see this, Sleet realized. To recognize the power he had, what we stand against, and how we have no chance.   
  
Because Erebus was right. There was nothing they could do.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
Alaris felt the rise in power like a punch to the gut. She inhaled sharply, Hephaestion's voice turning distant as her awareness stretched outward.   
  
“Balaam,” she breathed. “He's here.”   
  
Ashur shot to his feet, alarm making him go pale. “Already?”  
  
Hephaestion met her gaze with a bare nod. “The animus is close. He must have sensed it.”   
  
“And Sleet as well.” Alaris sucked in a steadying breath. “There's no more debating it. We must do what needs to be done.”   
  
The door slammed open behind her. Alaris whirled, expecting to see Sleet, but it was Beryl. Alone.   
  
“Where is Sleet?” the thief demanded.   
  
“I should be asking you the same question,” Alaris replied coolly. “I sent him after you.”   
  
“Obviously he didn't find me,” Beryl spat.  
  
“Do we really have time to argue?” Ashur asked, his voice high and strained. “Balaam's here and in case you haven't noticed, we're very outnumbered!”   
  
Beryl's hand clenched on the door frame as he bared his teeth.   
  
Alaris, however, had to admit that Ashur was right. “Stay here with Iblion,” she said. “We can't afford to be burdened with carrying him or leaving him alone. Hephaestion?”   
  
“He's by the docks,” her anima replied, crackles of energy gathering around him. “As is our unknown animus. I can sense them both though for how long, I can't say. Balaam has spread his influence throughout Darthen.”   
  
“Which means he already knows where we are,” Alaris said.   
  
“Yes. Except for Iblion and Ashur. As I cannot sense them, neither can Balaam. It will work in their favor.”   
  
Well, that was one bit of good news. Ashur, luckily, did not protest to being left behind. He was pale, however, as he moved to the window and looked out it. The once-bright sky had darkened, almost as though a storm was brewing.   
  
“Then we must hurry. Beryl, come with us if that is your intention,” Alaris said, restless energy settling about her. She was under no illusion about their ability to withstand Balaam's attack.  
  
But she couldn't sit back and do nothing either. Even if it would be wiser.   
  
Alaris hurried into the hall, Hephaestion on her heels, and was unsurprised when Beryl followed after her. Lynn was coming down the corridor, a frown on her lips.   
  
“Take shelter,” Alaris said, sparing no time to pause. “Inform all that you can. A storm is coming and it is likely to be dangerous.”   
  
“I think we can weather a storm,” Lynn called after her, face furrowing with confusion.   
  
“Suit yourself,” Beryl said smartly. “But don't say we didn't warn you.”   
  
Alaris ignored them all, near-bursting out the front door and into the street. Above her, the sky was dark and roiling, but it wasn't all cloud. She could make out hundreds, if not thousands, of winged beasts wheeling through the sky. They flapped above her, circling Darthen.   
  
None, however, dove to attack.   
  
“What are they doing?” Beryl demanded.   
  
“Waiting,” Alaris answered and pushed on, listening to the sounds of chaos, watching people stream past them in panicked flight. “For the order to strike.”   
  
“What is Balaam waiting on?”   
  
“I don't think we're going to like the answer to that,” Hephaestion said, eyes narrowing. “I sense Sleet near the docks. It is also where I sense Frost and Errol.”   
  
Alaris groaned. “Great.” She broke into a jog, finding it difficult to breathe through the overbearing presence of magic covering Darthen like a thick blanket. The wind had picked up as well, cold enough to knife through her clothing.   
  
From what she could see, a storm was brewing over the waters, and a lone ship was caught in the churning waves. Lightning flashed, though she heard no thunder. Tattered sails whipped in the fierce wind.   
  
And she knew, without having to ask, that their newly discovered animus was aboard that ship – Errol, as Hephaestion had called him. Why it wasn't already a massive fireball of destruction, however, was just as confusing as the demons waiting to attack.   
  
What sort of game was Balaam playing now?   
  
By the time they made it to the pier, the docks were deserted. A few ships bobbed in their moorings, minimally staffed as sailors struggled to get them secured. The boardwalk itself was empty of citizens, most having fled for their lives. Wise of them. It was hard not to notice the winged forms over head, the cacophony of screeches and hisses and flapping wings.   
  
The lack of crowds made finding Sleet easy. He was standing on the end of one of the piers, Erebus next to him, staring out toward the water.   
  
No. Not at the water. But at a ship on the horizon, hundreds of meters from port, tattered sails whipping in the wind. Fire lashed into the dark sky, though the wind hitting the docks was rimed in ice. The water churned, slapping at the sides of the ship.   
  
“It is Aeneas,” Hephaestion said beside her. “He is resisting Balaam.”   
  
“Then...?”  
  
The deity inclined his head. “Yes. His anima has accepted him. They are strengthened by that bond. Even so...” He paused, face darkening. “Balaam is toying with him.”   
  
Something roiled within Alaris. A hate unlike anything she had ever felt. Her eyes narrowed, hands balling into fists but that was when Beryl shoved past her, making a beeline for Sleet.   
  
She read the violence in his urgency, the tense set of his shoulders. Yet, she made no effort to hurry or to stop him. Neither did Hephaestion. Whatever was between Beryl and Sleet, Alaris wanted no part of it.   
  
Sleet, unaware, turned too slow at the sound of the dock creaking. Beryl's fist struck him square on the jaw, snapping his head back. He stumbled and Erebus was there to keep him from going into the water, but only just. Sleet touched his chin, blood welling on his lip, surprise etched into his face.   
  
That he didn't retaliate surprised Alaris. Perhaps he'd known it was coming.   
  
Beryl moved as if to strike once more, but a sharp word from Erebus gave him pause as it would any normal man. Erebus was only half a foot taller than both of them, but he radiated power.   
  
“Explain yourself,” Erebus demanded, his voice clear as Alaris drew closer.   
  
Beryl's hands drew into fists, body shaking. “No.”   
  
“I can guess anyway,” Sleet said with a sneer, wiping blood from his lip. “It's not my fault but feel free to blame me. Everyone's pretty damn good at that.”   
  
Beryl snarled. “It's always been your fault, whether you acknowledge it or not. I've lost everything because of you!”   
  
Sleet glared, though in Alaris' opinion, he was unusually calm. “I don't know what you want from me.” He shrugged off Erebus' arm, taking a step closer to Beryl. “Whatever you think I'll give you, I can't.”   
  
Beryl twitched.   
  
Laughter echoed from behind Alaris.   
  
She whirled as ice dropped into her belly, recognizing that sound, that condescension, but most of all, the familiar crawl of unfriendly magic scraped at her skin. Hephaestion pressed against her side, all but vibrating with fury, and there was Frost or Balaam or whatever he called himself.   
  
Frost smirked at them, looking harmless save for an aura of destruction. Blood speckled his trousers, proving that he'd been in a fight, and his sleeves were tattered.   
  
“You amuse me,” Frost said, flicking a hand through his hair. “But I grow tired of these games. It is time to end them.” Fire burst to life at his feet, climbing up his legs but leaving no destruction behind.   
  
The chill grew worse. Hephaestion made a low sound in his throat, magic rising around him in a ripple.   
  
Alaris glared.   
  
And that was when Sleet pushed past all of them, in front of Alaris and Hepahestion and Beryl, leaving Erebus behind.   
  
“I agree,” Sleet said, and though he appeared in control, Alaris heard the waver in his voice. “No more games.”  
  
Frost paused, tipping his head upright and Alaris did not like the gleam in his eyes. It wasn't entirely human. “Do you think I won't kill you?”   
  
“I think that you haven't yet,” Sleet replied, an edge of uncertainty in his tone.   
  
Frost laughed and the sound of it sent a chill down Alaris' back. Hephaestion's, too, as he pressed against her side as though trying to cloak her in his magic.   
  
“You value yourself highly, don't you?”   
  
Sleet's hands went in and out of fists but Alaris doubted it was from anger. “Not really. I like living is all. And I seem to remember you gave me a choice.”   
  
When was this? Alaris frowned, irritation trickling through the undercurrents of fear. That Sleet had been having conversations with Frost shouldn't come as a surprise to her, but it did. He was so rarely out of her eyesight, but there were times...   
  
That Sleet hadn't already left with Frost was the real mystery and the answer probably had much to do with that edge of not-human in those dark eyes.   
  
“Where is Adair?” Alaris demanded, because she was not going to sit here while these two played whatever game they were playing with each other. Lives were at stake, especially the helpless ship she knew was behind them, bobbing on the waves.   
  
Frost's attention shifted to her and Alaris straightened her spine. There was something insidious in that stare. “Alive,” Frost said, better a purr. “Though proving little use.” He smirked.   
  
“Then why not trade him for someone better?”   
  
That was Beryl, coming up behind Sleet, giving the smaller thief a shove in the center of his back. Sleet stumbled forward, but he didn't immediately retreat, only hovered there somewhere in between a Frost bathed in fire, and the others.   
  
“Why don't you take your pet and be done with it?” There was loathing in Beryl's face, loathing that Alaris had never seen the blond express. She'd known that he and Sleet didn't get along, but this was something deeper.   
  
Something had happened and while part of her burned to know what, another part of her felt relieved to be ignorant. Except that now, it had come down to this. Sure, she'd contemplated doing much the same on her own before, but the fact remained that she needed Sleet to save the world.   
  
Sleet stiffened and Frost's laughter made the set nature of his shoulders worse. And Erebus was there, one hand on Sleet's shoulder, though he said nothing. Perhaps they kept their conversation internal.   
  
“Why Beryl, you almost sound jealous.”   
  
Beryl sneered. “Hardly. I'm just making the choice for him.”   
  
Frost shook his head, amusement sliding away, replaced by something darker. His eyes were almost black now and Alaris could feel the presence of another deity, though she didn't know why Balaam hadn't made an appearance yet. He'd not stepped on the mortal plane to her knowledge.   
  
“It doesn't work that way, Rhys,” Frost said, his voice a hiss, and the fire that had been licking at his feet suddenly crept along the dock, orange and red as it crawled across weather-worn wood.   
  
Frost could wipe them out easily. But he didn't. Maybe there was something to Sleet's bravado, his belief that Frost wouldn't kill him.   
  
Sleet's looked over his shoulders, eyes meeting Alaris' gaze from across the dock. They didn't speak and Alaris wasn't sure what to call the look on his face. And then it didn't matter because Sleet slowly returned his attention to Frost.   
  
“And what if I said I agreed?” Sleet asked, taking a slow, measured step forward. “What if I said, this time, you've convinced me?”   
  
The flames died down.   
  
“Sleet, no!” Erebus snatched at Sleet's shoulder, but the thief shrugged him off without a backward look.   
  
“I'd call you a liar,” Frost replied, but there was a hoarseness to his voice that wasn't present before. He cocked his head to the side. “Or are you playing the martyr?”   
  
A low laugh escaped Sleet, but it held little amusement. “I like to live, remember? You can't fault me for that.”   
  
“No, I can't.” Frost straightened, the flames dying in an instant. “So. I leave your little friends alone and you come along and all's well. Is that the deal?”   
  
Sleet rolled his shoulders, taking another step toward Frost. “I'm coming whether you spare them or not.”   
  
“Interesting.” Frost reached out, hand ruffling through Sleet's hair before he gripped it, pulling the brunet closer to him. Sleet hissed in pain, but didn't fight the action. More alarming was how suddenly Erebus blinked out of existence. “Then why don't I believe you?”   
  
Sleet's hands slip into fists and his eyes squeeze shut. “You're talking to the wrong animus. I can't read minds.”   
  
“Yes, I know. The other half of your group who is conveniently not present and skillfully hidden from me.” Frost's smirk widened and there was nothing human in it. As though Balaam had taken full control and there was little left of Frost beneath. “But I'll find them. And I'll take what is mine. For now, however, you will do.”   
  
“And what about Adair?” Alaris demanded, daring to step forward, despite Hephaestion's grip on her arm. “What about the rest of us?”  
  
What about the ship she knew was still burning on the horizon, but had yet to cause a wave of destruction that would flatten Darthen?   
  
“I've made my point.” Frost's fingers loosened in Sleet's hair, but only so that he could put a grip on the back of the thief's neck. “You can have the other one. He's of no use to me.” He lifted a hand,snapping his fingers.   
  
Pools of black gathered on the dock. Alaris, Hephaestion and Beryl edged backward, away from the creeping shadows. It bubbled noisily, rising until it was the height of a man. Seconds later, it popped, shattering into nothing, leaving behind a blond man.   
  
It was Adair, eyes closed, wearing a plain robe and looking, for all of it, as though he was asleep. He stood there for a moment more and then crumpled to the deck as though the strings holding him upright had been cut.   
  
Alaris pushed past Beryl, kneeling at Adair's side, pressing her hand to his forehead. He felt warm to the touch, but not that of illness, and his breathing was even. To first glance, he was perfectly healthy.   
  
“Of course, I'm hardly altruistic,” Frost said, prompting her to look up. He leaned against Sleet's back and pressing their heads together in a parody of lover's affection. “I don't have the energy to spare in taking what I want today.”   
  
Shadows crept up from the docks, covering Frost and Sleet both, though the latter's eyes widened in alarm.   
  
Alaris felt her hands draw into fists, the sense of magic in the air sharp and bitter. “Should we be grateful for your mercy?”   
  
Sleet winced as the grip on his neck tightened, but he didn't speak.   
  
Frost, however, smirked. “It depends. How long do you think you'll survive once I take from Aeneas what's rightfully mine?” His laughter cut off behind a veil of black and in an instant, both he and Sleet were gone, leaving behind nothing but the lashing wind and Adair, groaning as he woke.   
  
“What did that mean?” Beryl demanded.   
  
Alaris shook her head, setting aside the curiosity for why Beryl had remained and didn't insist on going with Frost.  
  
“He's going for Aeneas,” Hephaestion answered, his face pinched as he gestured toward the sea and the listing boat on the horizon, dead in the water. “There is no time. We must flee.”   
  
“You're not going to help him?” Beryl all but gaped.   
  
“We lack the capability. There is nothing we can do.”   
  
Alaris ignored both of them, focusing instead on Adair. Blue eyes struggled to focus as he groaned again, arms pushing himself upright.   
  
“W... what?”   
  
“There's no time to explain,” she said, keeping her voice soft. “We have to go. Can you walk?”   
  
He managed to get his knees beneath him, slowly shaking his head as though trying to clear the cobwebs. “I... maybe.” He got one foot flat on the deck, but Alaris had to grab his elbow, pulling him the rest of the way.   
  
Adair swayed on his feet and then leaned heavily against her side, feeling much lighter than she would expect for a man of his height. He was pale and drawn, thin as though he hadn't eaten, but if Frost had tortured him, she could see no direct evidence on his body.   
  
The wind picked up in earnest, ice-cold through her clothes. She felt the thin fall of something cold and hard on her face. It landed on her cheeks, her collar. She heard the light taps, like rain on wood, but harder. Like hail.   
  
Like ice.   
  
“Aeneas will fight to the last breath,” Hephaestion said, appearing at Adair's other side and taking the bulk of the twin's weight. “He will give us time to escape. Let us not waste his sacrifice.”   
  
It went against everything that Alaris fought for, but she could read the logic in the situation. They could not stop Balaam if they were all killed here.   
  
“What does it matter!” Beryl demanded, hands flicking into the air in surrender. “When that wave hits us, Darthen will be firewood and we'll be drowned with the rest!”   
  
Alaris' skin prickled, hair raising on her arms. She glanced over her shoulder, at the whipping winds and rising water setting the tattered ship to buck and toss in the waves.   
  
“We can make a stand,” Hephaestion said, grim. “We must get to Ashur and Iblion. We stand our best chance indoors. The waters will absorb much of the energy wave. We will only have to contend with the resulting overflow.”   
  
“And maybe, if we're lucky, we won't die,” Beryl said with a sneer. His face twisted with naked loathing.   
  
He whirled on a heel and broke into a run, heading straight inland. Alaris exchanged a glance with Hephaestion and together, they moved with urgency.   
  
There was a shred of hope, she thought. The docks were downhill from Darthen proper. Any wave would have to be pushed up an incline to decimate the city. The pier and the ships would not survive but if they were fast enough, they could outrun the surge.   
  
“Frost cannot kill us,” Hephaestion murmured, his face pale and the wind whipping at his hair. “We immortals cannot die and if our animus were to die, we would not be able to return to the mortal plane. Balaam can't take our magic in Elysium.”   
  
“Then what's the point of it all?” Alaris demanded.   
  
Her anima shook his head. “That I do not know. Balaam is not of sound mind. The discord between himself and his chosen host is obvious. Theirs is not an animum bond.”   
  
Alaris felt as though she had been struck. Shock would have frozen her in place if not for the urgency of their flight, the climb uphill and the frantic race back to the Mermaid's Bosom.   
  
“What?”   
  
Hephaestion sighed. “Now is not the time.”   
  
Alaris' mind went around in circles, anger flushing with the fear. She panted, desperate for breath considering their exertion, but there was betrayal, too. What else were they hiding? What secrets had they been keeping?  
  
“Fine,” she agreed, putting forth her attention to surviving the next five minutes. “But you're telling me everything. Everything that matters.” Because Sleet was gone, Adair was probably compromised, and judging by the magic thick in the air, Aeneas was down to the last bit of strength he had.   
  
“That is fair,” Hephaestion agreed.   
  
Alaris only hoped they would live long enough to get the answers she needed.   
  


****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an FYI, this fic will be updated on a monthly basis, on the first Tuesday of every month, guaranteed. 
> 
> Feel free to follow me on my livejournal (n_wilkinson.livejournal.com) or my tumblr (nicolewilkinsonwrites) for bonus content and author discussions and faster update alerts. 
> 
> I will also be self-publishing a prequel to the entire series, entitled The Finer Points of Thievery, which covers how Frost and Sleet met, introduces Beryl, and hints to how Frost first met Balaam. Stay tuned for more information! :)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! Feedback is always welcome and appreciated!


	45. The Road to Ruin - Chapter Six

Tungsten felt like an entertainer as he juggled the bags of supplies Mrs. Upton had shoved into his arms, even she tried to push another toward him, this one looking as though it was filled with dried fruit. While appetizing, he feared that taking one more would cause him to topple over, further proving he was nothing more than a clumsy mess.   
  
“Stay safe,” Mrs. Upton was saying, her face pinched with concern as she fretted over him, far more than she had Sleet-san. “Write to me if at all possible. I know Stewart won't bother, but I'd like to know if... well, I would like to know.”   
  
Tungsten nodded, arms feeling heavy beneath the weight of her offerings. “I promise to keep you informed as best I can,” he said. “We appreciate the hospitality. You and your husband have been accommodating above and beyond what is polite.”   
  
She managed a thin smile before abruptly pulling him into a hug, her arms wrapping tight around him. “Thank you, Tungsten. And I will write to your parents as well, reassure them of your safety. They might take it better from one mother to another.”   
  
“I hope so,” Tungsten said and drew in a deep breath once Mrs. Upton let him go.   
  
“Tungsten! Let's go!” Raven barked at him, in fine spirits now that he was fully healed.   
  
This was truly going to be an enjoyable adventure. Not for the first time does Tungsten lament that he had not been chosen to accompany Alaris-san.   
  
Mrs. Upton patted him on the shoulders and stepped back, standing next to Mr. Upton. “Good luck, Tungsten. May Asherah be your guide.”   
  
“We can only hope,” Tungsten replied. He offered her a small smile before he turned to the others, barely able to see over the pile of bags in his arms.   
  
Raven took one, slinging it over his shoulder. “What's in here? Bricks?”   
  
“Fruit,” Tungsten corrected, trying to hand a bag to Malach-san. The Kurai warrior gave him a long look but took it, easing the load. “And vegetables.” Other things as well. He would have to go through them thoroughly later.   
  
“It is kind of them,” Malach-san said, peering into his bag. “This will be helpful.”   
  
“Feels weird to know they're helpful and Sleet's a brat,” Raven muttered before rolling his shoulders. “Are we leaving now or what?”   
  
Heimdal smirked. “Eager, are we?”   
  
“We've been delayed long enough,” Raven-san said, shifting his weight with a concealed grimace. Obviously in pain, he did his best to hide it.   
  
Tungsten sighed to himself. In the back of his mind, Asclepius giggled, commenting that she was glad he wasn't full of machismo. Tungsten privately thought he could use a dose of it.   
  
“How long will it take?” Tungsten asked. He burned to ask other questions, especially regarding how it would work and the extent of Heimdal's abilities but according to Asclepius, that was rude. Information willingly offered was a different story.   
  
“Half a day, at most,” Heimdal replied, turning his gaze toward the southeast and their eventual destination across the entirety of Lieve.   
  
Tungsten's eyes widened. A half day to travel Lieve. That was impressive.   
  
_Some of us can even teleport_ , Asclepius murmured at the back of his mind. _Or they could. Only the first tier had that ability, but they are gone now.  
  
'Balaam?'_ Tungsten asked.   
  
Asclepius hummed a soft sound of confirmation, grief palpable. _In time, the second tier would have gained that ability and stage by stage, so will the rest of us. But not in enough time to be of any use._   
  
Unfortunate but not unexpected. They would simply have to make do with what they had available to them.   
  
“What do we need to do?” Tungsten asked.   
  
“Just stay close. If you don't, I might lose you in the earth and suffocation, I hear, is an unpleasant way to die,” Heimdal answered.   
  
Tungsten shuddered. As did Raven. Close confines were no favorite of the mercenary, apparently, though Malach had no issues with it. He'd lived under a mountain after all.   
  
Raven glanced at the sky, one visible eye squinting at the sun and the dawn fading away. “Time to go.”   
  
“So it is.” Heimdal gestured to them as Malach stepped near to him, their shoulders bumping. “As I said, keep close and hopefully, I won't lose any of you.”   
  
Something prickled in the air, a sensation of magic, but heavy rather than light. Tungsten looked around, half-expecting to see some physical manifestation of Heimdal's power. There was nothing but the ground vibrating beneath his feet. He took a step closer to the deity, swallowing over a lump in his throat.   
  
_Don't worry_ , Asclepius said to him, her tone thick with enforced cheer. _Heimdal's been doing this a lot longer than I have. He'll keep you safe._   
  
Tungsten meant to reply but that was when the ground dropped out from beneath him. A cry caught in his throat and he flailed, caught off balance. He could still feel something solid underneath him, but the sensation of falling remained. Darkness eclipsed the bright of the sun and he felt he was moving, but there was no visible cues to prove it.   
  
He heard rumbling, like another earthquake, and felt the damp coolness of being underground. Bits of dirt and rocks peppered his face, not enough to hurt or sting, but just enough to be palpable. He could hear the others breathing, reassuring him he wasn't alone, and the prickle of magic rested over his skin like a second layer of clothing.   
  
Time seemed to lose meaning. Tungsten fought the urge to reach out, touch something solid. He worried that he might lose his fingers or even his hand. He didn't know the extent of Heimdal's reach and better not to test it. Yet, the fact that he couldn't see his companions was discomfiting. He knew they were there, but without visual confirmation, it felt more like he had to rely on faith.   
  
_They are with you_ , Asclepius said, reassuring him that she was still present. _And so am I. It'll be over a lot sooner than you know. I think Heimdal's bending a little more than earth right now.  
  
'How so?'_   
  
Asclepius sighed softly. _It's hard to explain and has to do with dimensional resonance, basically the magic we tap into to travel between our plane of existence and yours. I think Heimdal's hopping in and out of that resonance._   
  
Tungsten's head spun. He wasn't exactly sure what Asclepius was talking about as he was no scientist or studied anything higher than the basics. Theoretical physics was beyond his purview. Best just to call it immortal magic and let his brain relax.   
  
_'I see_ ', he said, though he really didn't.   
  
Asclepius chuckled at him. _The how doesn't really matter. Just relax and know that you'll be in Thessalia shortly._   
  
It was a relief. Tungsten inhaled and exhaled, closing his eyes because that seemed more comfortable, and focused on the sensation of magic that surrounded him. This, at least, was familiar. He thought of the marks on his casting rod, lamenting that he would never be able to complete his studies at this rate.   
  
There were others who had lost much more than him. Like Malach, scarred all over and mostly silent. He let Heimdal do the talking and Tungsten despaired to think he would ever become friendly with them. Raven, too, had been harmed by Frost and this war. He had lost his sister and half his vision.   
  
Lieve, Tungsten suspected, would be a smoking pit of despair by the time Balaam was through. Though utter destruction seemed a pointless goal. There had to be more to the story. What was Balaam truly after?   
  
_Brace yourself_ , Asclepius warned.   
  
Tungsten's eyes popped open, revealing that he was still surrounded by darkness and the sensation of falling. _'Why?'  
  
You're almost there._   
  
Magic tightened around them, buzzing against his skin like the taut stretch of a sunburn. He winced, arms wrapping around his torso, when they suddenly burst into brightness. Tungsten squinted, one hand rising to shield his eyes. The ground seemed to spit him out, he and his companions, and he flailed in an attempt to regain his balance.   
  
He was not successful.   
  
His feet hit the ground hard and Tungsten stumbled, landing on hands and knees, scraping his palms. Crunchy plains grass prickled at his skin, the humid heat of late summer washing over him, making sweat break out over his skin. Golden grass, dry as paper, rustled in a mild breeze. Tungsten groaned, sitting back on his heels as he tried to regain his bearings.   
  
They certainly weren't in Toren anymore.   
  
The sound of retching attracted his attention. Tungsten looked to his left and found Raven bent over at the waist, forcefully expelling all that he'd eaten for breakfast. Malach, however, seemed to have suffered no ill effects from the journey, staring into the distance as Heimdal stood by his side, wiping sweat from his brow.   
  
Tungsten pushed himself to his feet, readjusting the straps on his shoulders. He shielded his eyes with one hand. They'd left Toren at dawn; they'd arrived in Thessalia in late afternoon, as best he could tell.   
  
“Where are we?” he asked.   
  
“Kasai,” Heimdal replied, planting his hands on his hips as he looked around. “Just outside of Gorelik.”   
  
“How far are we from the animus?”   
  
“I believe he or she is in Gorelik,” Malach answered, his accent thick but understandable. “Though there is much ambient noise. We'll need to get closer to pin down the animus' location.”   
  
Raven snorted as he straightened, wiping his hand over the back of his mind. “This ought to be fun,” he said, looking more than a little pale in the face. “I take it we're walking the rest of the way?”   
  
“It is the method least likely to attract attention,” Heimdal confirmed. “Which means I will be making myself scarce. Try not to kill one another in my absence.” He shimmered out of view in that same instant, leaving the three men to look at each other.   
  
“We'll follow your lead, Raven-san,” Tungsten suggested. “After all, you are more well-traveled than the both of us. Do you know anything about Gorelik?”   
  
“No. I've never been to Thessalia,” Raven replied. “But as long as they speak either Common and Sanjaran, we should be fine. Unless they ask for papers.”   
  
“Papers?” Malach frowned.   
  
Tungsten hurried to explain. “Some of the more progressive cities demand written confirmation of your identity. They are official documents handed out by the overseers in a given town, usually for a fee, that declare your name, and your date and place of birth. I think I have mine somewhere.” He patted down his numerous pouches, trying to remember where he'd stashed his and whether he still had it.   
  
“Which is all well and good, but Malach doesn't and neither do I,” Raven said. “So we may have to do this the hard way. Let's hope it doesn't come to that.”   
  


o0o0o

  
  
Luck was not on their side.   
  
The guards at the gate were not only demanding papers, but using physical force on those who couldn't produce them fast enough, and arresting those who had none at all. Tungsten didn't know what political strife had infected Kasai for them to invoke such measures, but he didn't want to be caught up in the middle of it.   
  
Neither had Raven.   
  
“You go ahead,” Raven ordered, eye narrowed as he watched the proceedings at the gate. “You're the only one of us who is legitimate. We'll find another way in.”   
  
“How?” Tungsten demanded, and flung a hand toward the wall surrounding the city, patrolled by armed guards bristling with weaponry.   
  
“No city is impenetrable.” Raven's face was grim as he handed his saddlebag to Tungsten and Malach did the same. “We'll move faster without the extra weight.”   
  
Tungsten, meanwhile, sagged beneath it. “I look ridiculous.”   
  
“But legitimate and that's what matters. See if they're handing out vouchers for citizens. Don't say anything stupid. And don't draw attention to yourself,” Raven continued, ignoring Tungsten's protests as he looked him over with a critical eye. “Don't find us. We'll find you.”   
  
Tungsten gnawed on his bottom lip. “I don't think this is a good idea.”   
  
“It's the only idea we have,” Raven said and put his hands on Tungsten's shoulders, physically turning him to face the gate. “Get going already. It's not like you're alone.”   
  
Asclepius giggled. _He's right about that.  
  
'Don't encourage him_', Tungsten retorted with a sigh, but he gathered his courage and strode forward, feeling the weight of their stares between his shoulderblades. He stumbled beneath the weight of the bags, hoping he remembered where his papers were, and joined the double-file stream of people heading for Gorelik's main gate.   
  
He listened to the conversation around him, some of it in a language he didn't understand. Others were bemoaning the recent and inexplicable shifts in the weather. There was a drought to the east, apparently, and the price of Rozlin had gone up.   
  
No one, however, made any kind of mention of demons or attacking creatures. It was as if the war hadn't touched this portion of Lieve. How lucky for them. Though that meant Tungsten still didn't know why they were being so cautious at the gate.   
  
The line shuffled closer to the guards and Tungsten fumbled his bags, digging in his side pouch for his papers. They crumpled as he yanked them out and promptly dropped two into the muddy, churned roadway.   
  
Tungsten sighed, looking down at them. To bend over and pick them up meant he would drop something else. Raven and Malach should have taken some of this burden.   
  
“Move the line forward!” one of the soldiers barked, gesturing impatiently.   
  
Flustered, Tungsten scrambled to pick up his papers, not lose any of his bags, and rejoin the line. It was a clumsy effort and when he finally handed over the wrinkled, muddy identification, the soldier gave him a raised eyebrow.   
  
“Reason for visit?” he asked as he skimmed Tungsten's documentation, which in retrospect, was probably in a language he couldn't understand.   
  
Reason for...? Tungsten paled. He hadn't thought of a proper cover story! He couldn't very well say that he was here to look for a destined hero to help him take down an evil deity bent on world destruction.   
  
The soldier's eyes narrowed. “Reason for visit?” he repeated, tone sharp.   
  
_Sight-seeing_! Asclepius all but babbled in his ear, sounding caught between amusement and anxiety. _Kasai is known for its brewing facilities and art museums._   
  
“Travel,” Tungsten bit out, failing to conceal his wince as Asclepius' shouts echoed in his head. “I'm something of an art connoisseur.”   
  
The soldier gave him a long look and paged through his documents again. “And your master?”   
  
Master...? Confusion struck before Tungsten realized what he guard meant. He almost smacked himself. The apprentice marks on his forehead, carefully inked each day without much thought, were known all across Lieve.   
  
“I'm in the market,” Tungsten said and patted himself down for his casting rod, eager to provide proof to his story. “My previous master was, shall we say, short-sighted.” The wood tumbled into his hands and he proudly displayed the rod, showing that he only had two of the eight glyphs.   
  
“I see. Then you'd be interested to know that the guild is currently accepting new members, should you prove yourself willing to plant root in Gorelik,” the guard said, folding Tungsten's papers and handing them back. He added a card to the stack, one that was a thick parchment died a minty green. “Your travel pass is for ten days. You may petition for an extension at the chamber of commerce.”   
  
Tungsten nodded, taking his papers and the card. Ten days was more than enough, he suspected. “Thank you,” he said, but the soldier was already heading for the traveler behind Tungsten.   
  
He breathed a sigh of relief. He made it. He hadn't completely made a fool of himself or gotten caught for a liar.   
  
Tungsten joined the trickle heading for the open gate, waving his colored card at the soldier guarding the gate, sharp eyes tracking for approval cards. No one bothered Tungsten or questioned him and he passed into Gorelik without problem, the noise of a busy city instantly enveloping him.   
  
His pace slowed as he looked around him. Gorelik was organized, almost to a fault, the streets laid out in geometric patterns. He could see all the way to the main buildings in the city center, flags waving in a damp breeze above a castle-sized structure. Other buildings lined the main road, wooden signs depicting their purpose.   
  
Gorelik was in the midst of celebration. Streamers and banners decorated all of the buildings, strewn across the road between roofs and twirled around lampposts. Entertainers wove through the crowds, brightly dressed and displaying their skills. Jugglers and musicians and artists and all manner of people.   
  
There were others too, he noticed with a burn to his cheeks. Men and women alike, scantily dressed, only the barest hint of modesty to their dress. Their faces were painted, their looks coy and their hands reached out in offering.   
  
Such an, um, profession, was not allowed in Nippon except for the government-operated mansion that was kept far from the prying eyes of the easily influenced: namely children. They would never be allowed on the streets like this.   
  
Something bumped into Tungsten from behind, jostling him hard enough that he took a tumble. His famous clumsiness showed itself and he dropped to his knees, bags and papers scattering everywhere.   
  
Tungsten scrambled to retrieve his papers and casting rod before they were trampled beneath the boots of the crowd, wincing when one of the bags was snatched by a quick-footed thief. That the boy bore a passing resemblance to Sleet was ironic.   
  
At once, Tungsten was reminded of why he'd grown to despite larger cities. For all the luxuries they provided, there were other downfalls as well.   
  
_I suppose you shouldn't stand around gawking_ , Asclepius teased, though her energies hinted that she itched to pop into existence and help him.   
  
' _A rather rude way to teach me a lesson_ ', Tungsten replied and swallowed down a sigh. ' _But you are right. Have you seen my...?'_   
  
His question died when someone held out the card to him, fingernails painted a bright teal. “You dropped this,” the kind stranger said, husky tones skewing female.   
  
Tungsten smiled, looking up to greet the stranger as he accepted the card. His words of gratitude stuttered on his tongue as the painted woman came into view, also holding one of his bags.   
  
“Uh, thank you,” he said, feeling his face heat. “The crowds are unforgiving, it seems.”   
  
The woman smiled, painted red lips curving upward, handing over his bag as well. “Visitors don't often stand in the middle of the street to gape. Especially not in front of the main gate.”   
  
Tungsten made a point of keeping his gaze northward. She might dress provocatively on purpose, in an attempt to garner attention, but it was still rude to stare. “I have been accused of being easily distracted. Thank you again.” He accepted the bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He wondered which had been the one stolen, but he supposed such investigation would have to wait until he was somewhere safer.   
  
“You're welcome.” She tipped her head at him, bouncy curls reminiscent of Asclepius spilling over our shoulders. “I hope you enjoy your visit. And, if you get lonely, you know where to find me.” She winked.   
  
Tungsten's face bloomed with heat and he sputtered something like gratitude, hurrying to join the crowd rushing deeper into Gorelik. He ignored, also, the way Asclepius guffawed at him at the back of his mind and he was relieved that Raven-san had not been present to witness the embarrassment.   
  
Tungsten was, by no means, untouched as Raven-san and the others seemed to believe. Was it wrong that he had a healthy respect for women? That he preferred an honest connection over a meaningless touch of naked flesh?   
  
_It's admirable, in my opinion_ , Asclepius said, some of her amusement fading. _You're a gentleman and that's pretty rare. I like you just the way you are._   
  
A smile graced Tungsten's lips. ' _Thank you, my dear. Your approval, as always, is worth your weight in gold.'_   
  
Pleasure and affection surged across their links, such an intangible thing as it may be.   
  
Tungsten clutched his bags tighter to himself and kept a look out for an inn or a bed and breakfast. He hoped to find something affordable. They had very little coin as it was and--   
  
His shoulders slumped. Well, never mind that. The bag stolen had been the one with the coin in it. He should have known. Thieves had uncanny abilities to sniff out what was most valuable.   
  
_'What of the animus?_ ' Tungsten asked, to distract himself from mounting disappointment. ' _Can you sense him or her?'  
  
No,_ Asclepius replied with her own brewing disappointment. _There's only a distant sensation of familiar in Gorelik. That tells me that he or she has not accepted the bond with their other. That sensation is their bond lingering, waiting to be heard._   
  
This would not be as easy as Raven made it seem. Tungsten frowned, pulling out the green permissions card he'd been given. There wasn't much to be found on it, a small list of general rules, an arrival and departure date, and a contact location – namely the cultural center.   
  
Raven had said that they would find Tungsten. He would simply have to trust that. In the meantime, perhaps he could make himself useful by locating businesses of interest. Raven might have some idea how they could acquire coin as well.   
  
_And we can check out the party_! Asclepius said with glee in her voice. _Find me a quiet place to pop into view and I can join you_. If a disembodied voice could wiggle, Asclepius was certainly doing so.   
  
Tungsten near-sighed, lips twitching toward a smile. It was hard to hold irritation with Asclepius. She was excited about anything. ' _Yes, dear._ '   
  
He peered through the crowd, looking for somewhere inconspicuous to allow Asclepius to pop into being. That alley would have to do, he supposed, though his nose wrinkled as he approached. Trash was piled in abundance. Lucky that they wouldn't have to be here long. Even luckier, no one was paying them a whit of attention. So when the atmosphere grew heavy, magic surged, and Asclepius popped into view behind him, no one noticed. Or if they did, they didn't make a huge show of it.   
  
Asclepius giggled and bounced up next to him, her bright dress and oddly colored hair blending right into the crowd. “This is going to be fun.”   
  
“We're on a mission,” he reminded her though it was hard to keep a stern face. Stress had left him feeling hollow and exhausted and though their break in Toren had done him a world of good, he still felt as though he were tiptoeing across a bed of needles.   
  
“I remember.” Asclepius' eyes narrowed, and he was suddenly reminded that she was decades older than him, if not more. It was gone in an instant, however, when she smiled again. “But that doesn't mean we can't have a little fun in the meantime.”   
  
She grabbed his hand and before Tungsten could form much of a protest, Asclepius dragged him into the thick of the crowd, homing in on the increasingly loud music. She was deceptively strong and Tungsten stumbled after her, keeping a careful grip on his bags. He couldn't afford to lose any more.   
  
“As long as you keep a sensor out for our missing animus,” Tungsten said, attempting to sound stern.   
  
“Yes, sir!” Asclepius tossed him a playful salute before continuing her dogged search for what Tungsten suspected was not the missing animus, but some amount of trouble.   
  
A brightly dressed juggler passed them, grinning, eyebrows waggling. It was impressive, but Tungsten didn't have the coin to spare. In fact, many street performers were slipping in amongst the crowd, trying to encourage a coin or two. A woman had set up shop, claiming an ability to read the future, waving her deck of cards at all passing by. Surely she had to be hot draped in all those layers of fabric.   
  
And then the smells wafted his way.   
  
Tungsten's head swung in another direction, mouth filling with saliva. His stomach churned, reminding him that the last he'd eaten had been Mrs. Upton's breakfast and that was hours ago. He had travel food in his pack, but this was fresh! It smelled like home, dumplings in a vegetable broth and sticky noodles with lemon glaze.   
  
He'd gotten used to the standard fare during his travels, the heavy meat and potatoes everyone around him seemed to eat in abundance. He'd been missing the foods more familiar to him: salads and rice and plain noodles. Without coin, however, he couldn't have so much of a taste.   
  
Perhaps he could sell one of his rings. They were mere decoration and the Kurai hadn't taken them, which was either a mercy or a miracle. Tungsten suspected that the Kurai had no interest in jewels to begin with.   
  
Tungsten sighed. His stomach grumbled.   
  
No use focusing on what he wanted. He should be concentrating on what they needed. He had already registered a weapons shop, the sound of a blacksmith at work barely audible beneath the increasingly loud music. They would need a general grocery as well. Tungsten would need to inquire about transportation to the coast and the cost of passage across the great sea as well.   
  
So much to do, and how little time they had.   
  
Asclepius' hand squeezed his as she drew them to a halt. “We'll make it,” she said, tone uncharacteristically subdued.   
  
“I know,” Tungsten said, and managed a smile. “I was having a Raven-san moment, I suppose you could say.”   
  
She giggled. “He is perpetually pessimistic.”   
  
“I prefer to think of it as realistic.”   
  
Tungsten's eyes widened and he turned around, finding both Raven-san and Malach-san standing behind them, looking a little ragged and irritated. In fact, their expressions nearly matched, though Malach-san's edged more toward pain. This many people was probably wreaking havoc on his abilities.   
  
“How did you find us?” Tungsten asked, attempting not to gape.   
  
“Asclepius has been broadcasting. It was easy to pick up on her distinctive energy,” Malach-san replied and lifted a hand, rubbing his temple. “Heimdal says to stop now, before you attract the kind of attention we do not want.”   
  
Meaning Balaam most likely, though Tungsten didn't think they would have to worry about Balaam. After all, Sleet was with Alaris-san and Balaam – or Frost – tended to follow Sleet like a bee did honey.   
  
Asclepius pouted, folding her arms across her chest. “I was broadcasting on purpose. I know what I'm doing. How did you get in?”   
  
“It's not important. Have you found the animus?” Raven demanded.   
  
“No. And I have been looking.”   
  
Tungsten gestured around him. “There's some kind of festival going on. There are a lot of people to wade through.”   
  
Raven's eye narrowed. “What about supplies and lodging?”   
  
Tungsten's shoulders slumped, feeling as though he was about to admit wrongdoing to his father. “There are plenty of shops. Finding the supplies will be no problem. Lodging may be difficult given the amount of visitors here, but that's not our real issue. We're, how shall I say it, broke.”   
  
“Where there's a festival, there are sure to be thieves,” Asclepius added, eyes flashing as though daring Raven to say something untoward.   
  
Raven sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He muttered something under his breath before he raised his voice, “Then I suppose we should be grateful I'm not a complete idiot. I gave you the majority of it, but I kept enough on me that we can get by today.”   
  
“We will need more,” Malach-san said. “What are our options?”   
  
“Few.” Raven sighed. “This is going to be difficult.”   
  
That was an understatement, Tungsten thought. And he hoped, on the other side of Corynth, Alaris-san was faring much better than they were.   
  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback is very welcome and appreciated. Follow me on my tumblr (http://www.nicolewilkinsonwrites.com) for bonus content and art. Feel free to ask Anon questions as well. I'll be re-releasing The Finer Points of Thievery soon with new added content and you won't want to miss that. Thank you!


	46. The Road to Ruin - Chapter Seven

They separated again, all the better to cover more ground.   
  
Malach hadn't protested. The chance to have a moment to himself was not one he disdained. Well, alone except for Heimdal. Fortunately, he could endure his animus' presence without much irritation but Raven was abrasive and Tungsten too concerned. Malach didn't want his pity or his compassion.   
  
He needed time to come to terms with his future himself.   
  
More than that, he needed time to get a handle on all the noise. Voices, inside and out of his head. People thinking to themselves, singing to themselves. It clashed with what he heard echoing in his brain and through his ears. It was hard to keep track of a conversation when he heard the words from their lips and the unguarded thoughts that drifted free.   
  
It was exhausting. Malach was exhausted.   
  
“It will get easier,” Heimdal said beside him. “With time and training. Unfortunately, the deity best suited for training you is no longer of this world.”   
  
“Who?”   
  
Heimdal looked to the sky, blue as blue could be. “Tiamat.”   
  
The name was unfamiliar to Malach. She was not one of the goddesses recognized by the Kurai. Though Malach had come to learn that didn't mean much. The Kurai were too isolated for their own good, refusing to acknowledge the obvious truth.   
  
“Such would be my luck,” Malach said and fought back a wince. He rubbed his temple, trying to forestall the ache. One by one, he rebuilt the walls until the voices were a dull murmur.   
  
Finding the animus was pointless. He could not focus. It was the task Raven had given him and a task he could not accomplish.   
  
There were other things he could do to be helpful. Anything to keep his mind off what he had left behind.   
  
“Malach?”   
  
“I can't focus,” he admitted, though surely Heimdal already knew. Malach had been keeping to the edge of the crowd, the shadows of the stands. Not only were the voices too loud, but the stares too cutting. “I can't find the animus.”   
  
“You just need rest.”   
  
He shook his head. “Rest won't help. I don't need to sleep. I don't need to...” He trailed off, unwilling to voice the source of his reluctance. Instead, he braced himself, looking over the crowds. “What can I do to earn coin?”   
  
He felt, more than saw, Heimdal's frown. “Usually a job of some sort is required. A special skill or craft. Coin is exchanged for work given.”   
  
It made sense though also seemed strangely disproportionate. Malach was used to the barter system of the Kurai where nothing was wasted and useless items were just that, useless. They had no use for coins or jewels, only metals that could be mined and refined for weapons or tools or other comforts.   
  
“Work,” Malach repeated. What kind of work could he perform in a town such as this.   
  
“Yes. It couldn't hurt to look but I wouldn't hold much hope.” Heimdal gestured to the city at large. “This seems to be a city for tourism, not honest work.”   
  
And Heimdal was right.   
  
Malach walked for what felt like hours. He stopped to inquire at a few shops, but none were hiring for temporary work. Most of them demanded qualifications that he did not have. He spoke common but could not read it. He was unaware of the exchange rates of coin. His expression made him terrible for sales and customer service.   
  
He was still in pain, still healing. Manual labor was out of the question. Nor did he have the time to wait for the next opportunity to come around. As it stood, no one needed help immediately.   
  
Sleet would have resorted to stealing. Malach had far more honor than that.   
  
Until he saw the sign. Men of all ages were crowded around it, half of them bearing weapons. Most looked to be warriors. It attracted Malach's interest, though he could not read the words, he saw the weapons drawn on the paper, clashing as though in battle.   
  
“Heimdal,” he murmured, careful to keep his voice low. “What does that say?”   
  
The deity stepped closer for a better look before returning to Malach's side. “It's a tournament to be held tomorrow.”   
  
“Tournament?”   
  
“Yes. There are several categories but the main event is a bout between warriors. First prize is more than enough to secure our voyage to Sanjara.” The deity folded his arms, looking contemplative. “Truthfully, second or third place would help.”   
  
This, at least, appealed to Malach. “It is free?”   
  
“No, there is a registration fee.”   
  
He had no weapon right now and Malach keenly felt that lack. He had the bow Sleet's mother had gifted to him, but it wasn't suited for close-range combat. He would have to acquire a sword at the very least.   
  
“Can we afford it?”   
  
Heimdal made a contemplative noise. “That is a question you will have to ask Raven. I suspect he will want to enter as well. There may even be a way Tungsten can participate.”   
  
Well, it wasn't work. But it was better than nothing.   
  
Malach inclined his head. “All right. This will do.” Except that finding Raven meant opening himself to the influx of society.   
  
Nothing was ever simple.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
“Find the animus,” Raven had said as though Alaris had appointed him leader of their team. Which she probably had. Tungsten didn't have to like it even if it did make logical sense.   
  
Raven could be so rude at times.   
  
Tungsten sighed. At least Asclepius was having fun. Tungsten had lost count of the number of times she'd disappeared into the crowd, eager to sample some tasty treat or dance to the newest strain of music filling the air.   
  
Find the animus.   
  
Just where was he supposed to look in all this noise? There were people everywhere. Visitors and residents, crowding the streets, the booths. They jostled one another and were strangely okay with that. No one looked angry about the lack of space at least.   
  
Plus, it was hot.   
  
Tungsten was bathed in sweat beneath the layers of his robes. The ink on his forehead was beginning to run in gray trickles down the sides of his face. His hair stuck to the back of his neck. The sun grew higher, hotter, and his skin heated. It felt tight and he worried that he was burning. He wasn't used to this type of weather. In Nipon, it snowed for eight of the twelve months. It was cold and bitter and he missed that.   
  
He missed home.   
  
Being at Sleet's house had reminded him how much he missed his parents. He hadn't seen them in two years since leaving with Master Yuu.   
  
Tungsten sighed and shielded his eyes from the sun. His head hurt from squinting and he wasn't sure how he was supposed to find the animus. Not that he could entirely begrudge Asclepius her enthusiasm. His anima had been oddly listless as of late and that concerned Tungsten.   
  
And speaking of....   
  
Asclepius bounded out of the crowd, cheeks flush with color and a smile on her face. She tackled him with a hug and bounced back, grabbing his hand.   
  
“Come on!” she said with a giggle. “You're missing all the fun!”   
  
“We're supposed to be searching,” Tungsten reminded her.   
  
Asclepius rolled her eyes and tapped her head with her free hand. “I am searching, but no one says we can't have fun in the meantime.”   
  
Tungsten was pretty sure Raven had mentioned something to that effect but Asclepius was not fond of Raven-san and probably ignored him.   
  
“Have you found him or her?”   
  
Asclepius sighed, squeezing his hand. “No,” she said, drawing out the vowel. “Not yet. I get the feeling that she, and I'm sure our missing animus is a woman, is around here somewhere.”   
  
“Do you know who her anima is?”   
  
“Yep!” Asclepius' smile broadened, eyes sparkling with happiness and she bounced in place. “It's my dad!”   
  
Well. No wonder Asclepius was in such a good mood. Tungsten had heard bits and pieces about familial relationships between the deities, but Asclepius tended not to volunteer information. She would answer if Tungsten asked, but she wouldn't straight explain things. He suspected it never occurred to her to offer it.   
  
Tungsten smiled at her. “That's nice. Who is he?”   
  
She tucked his arm under hers and snuggled against his side, subtly pushing him toward a game booth. “Hmm. His name is Orthrus but I don't remember what mortals used to call him. He's been forgotten for a long time.”   
  
The name was unfamiliar to Tungsten. Sleet probably would've known since his mother had made him study the old gods. Still. At least that meant Asclepius wouldn't shirk on searching. She was no doubt eager to find her father.   
  
And speaking of forgotten deities... “Is that a temple?” Tungsten asked, getting a glimpse of a large, stone building out of the corner of his eyes. It was massive, towering and regal, constructed of a pale stone compared to the darker wood of the rest of the city.   
  
He was interested for literary reasons but also, all Tungsten could think of was the shade and how much cooler it would be within. Sitting down for a moment was also not out of the question.   
  
“Yes. Thessalia used to be one of the most devout countries in all of Lieve.” Asclepius frowned as though deep in thought. “This was a long time ago. Before the first war.”   
  
“What happened?”   
  
“I don't know. It was before I was born.”   
  
The temple looked better than Tungsten could have expected for having been abandoned. There was evidence of weathering on the structure. One of the towers had crumbled. But otherwise, it was intact. The front doors were either open or missing and the passing townsfolk gave it a wide berth. A few people stopped to stare, but then went on their way.   
  
“Can we go inside?”   
  
Asclepius blinked at him. “Why would you want to?”   
  
“Because it's interesting.” Tungsten shrugged and shielded his eyes again. “And I would be grateful to get out of this sun for however long we can spare.”   
  
“You are looking a little red.” Concern replaced some of her exuberance. “I don't think it's forbidden. Though people might give you a strange look.”   
  
Tungsten almost laughed. “I'm used to that. Let's go.” It was his turn to drag her, though Asclepius came along much more willingly.   
  
No one stopped him. If anyone looked twice, Tungsten didn't notice. He climbed the steps and hurried inside the temple, noticing that the doors were indeed gone. He had no doubt that if there was anything valuable within, it was long since gone. But it was blessedly cool. His shoulders sagged in relief.   
  
“Better,” Tungsten sighed and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim.   
  
There was a small atrium directly inside the entrance, empty of furniture. He could see empty hooks, spaces where items had once been. There were footsteps in the dirt, but they weren't fresh. Above him, lanterns with melted candles hung listlessly.   
  
The noise of the crowd beyond was muffled even with the open doorway. And he could just make out the nave ahead, the dim broken by light streaming in through broken windows or locations where the boards had fallen.   
  
Tungsten walked carefully, choosing his footing. It was difficult to tell whether the floor was stone or wood, given the detritus covering it. The last thing he wanted was to fall through the floor to his death. The temple smelled of must and disuse. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling in wispy trails of white.   
  
There were no pews. Whether this was by design or they'd been removed, Tungsten didn't know. There was an altar, however, and he headed toward it. A massive mural took up the entire back wall, cracks running through the painted effigy and water damage obscuring at least two-thirds of it. In fact, as Tungsten turned slowly, the walls themselves were covered in images. Some artist had painstakingly applied paint to these walls.   
  
He moved closer, inspecting them. There were symbols, interpretations of the gods. One was easy enough for Tungsten to pick out. Sybaris, the blood of Lieve, goddess of water. She danced in a stream, water rising around her in elegant swirls.   
  
“I remember Father telling me that the fall in Thessalia was the beginning,” Asclepius said, her voice soft but easily carrying to Tungsten. She was on the other side of the nave, looking at a different image. “He said that Thessalia used to be the center of mortal worship. That they had the closest relationship to the gods, though back then there were fewer of us, our magic and abilities more concentrated. But when Thessalia turned their backs on their beliefs, that was the beginning of the end. Of course, Balaam's war didn't help.”   
  
Tungsten frowned, moving on to the next image in an attempt to decipher it. “You think that there's a connection? Between Thessalia and Balaam?”   
  
“I don't know.” A small chuckle escaped the goddess. “History never was my strong suit. I remember that we weren't prepared for the first war. No one ever thought that one of we gods would turn on the rest of us.”   
  
Tungsten turned around, watching her as she studied the walls. “How did you defeat him?”   
  
“How else does anyone do the impossible? Someone makes a choice. And someone else makes a sacrifice.” Asclepius reached up, fingers brushing the symbol in the center of the opposite wall. It looked familiar to Tungsten, though he wasn't sure how he'd seen it before. “We were all punished for Balaam's actions. And what little faith the mortals had left all but dissipated. We are forgotten.”   
  
“Not entirely.” Tungsten offered a small smile, one hand touching the casting rod in his pocket. “We magic-users have never forgotten the old ones. And I gather that Alaris and her fellow clergy haven't either.”   
  
He felt, across their bond, the affection that Asclepius sent to him. “Yes. There is that.” Her chuckle carried to him before she gestured to the mural in front of her. “Do you know who this is?”   
  
“He feels familiar but I can't place the name,” Tungsten said.   
  
“It's Heimdal.”   
  
Tungsten blinked. He couldn't see the resemblance in the slightest, especially since this image was surrounded by those more related with the healing arts. “But--”   
  
“We've gone by different names. Or should I say the older gods since I'm still pretty young.” Asclepius turned away from the image, carefully crossing the floor to rejoin Tungsten. “Not only different names, but different magic as well. Heimdal was once Fenris and before that, Fafnir. Fafnir was once Efret before returning to Fafnir. It was a translation error.”   
  
Tungsten gave her a fond look. “So you remember their names but you can't remember the history? I believe you have selective memory, my dear.”   
  
Asclepius grinned. “More like I didn't pay much attention to Rian.”   
  
“Rian?”   
  
“It's what we call the mortal plane like our home is called Elysium.” She glanced past him, at the mural, before shrugging. “Did you find what you were looking for?”   
  
“I wasn't really looking for anything. I was just curious. And overheated.” He swiped at his hairline, trying not to disturb the already ruined lines. “By Asherah, I am not fond of being hot. I miss the snow.”   
  
Asclepius linked her arm with his. “No wonder you liked Toran so much.”   
  
“It was comfortably similar to home,” Tungsten agreed, letting her steer him back toward the door, though he had no interest in returning to that sweltering heat. “In fact...”   
  
He trailed off. Someone was standing in the entryway between the nave and the atrium, leaning against the frame. Their face and body was bathed in shadows thanks to the lack of light, but Tungsten was certain there was someone there.   
  
It was then that Asclepius gasped.   
  
Unease rippled through Tungsten.   
  
“You are very poor at concealing yourself, daughter,” came a voice from the dim, stepping out next to the person in the entryway, nearly as tall but radiating power in much the same way as Hephaestion and Heimdal.   
  
But not Erebus, Tungsten reflected. Or Asclepius. They were undeniably deities, but not as powerful, perhaps. They did not have the same ageless quality.   
  
“Yeah. We found ya long before ya would have ever found us,” another voice agreed, female, filled with amusement.   
  
Asclepius bounced in place before extracting herself from Tungsten's arm and bounding across the floor. It shuddered ominously but held as she threw herself at the first voice and Tungsten didn't need more than one guess to say it was Orthrus, especially with Asclepius' happy exclamation of “Father!”   
  
“Hello, my child,” said Orthrus, his soft baritone amused and affectionate all at once.   
  
The animus laughed at them. “She's adorable,” said the woman before she pushed herself off the wall and approached Tungsten, sticking out a hand in greeting. “Hi. I'm Mira. I do believe we've met.”   
  
Tungsten all but gaped, belatedly accepting her hand. “You!” He did, in fact, recognize her. “You helped me pick up my bags.”   
  
“That I did. And you made for quite an adorable lost tourist.” Mira laughed, a rich sound, her brown eyes twinkling at him from behind eyeglasses. “The voice in my head was quite insistent that I find you again.”   
  
Tungsten smiled. “You accepted him?”   
  
“We agreed it was in my best interest to pretend otherwise until an opportunity came for me to reveal m'self.” And then she flushed, taking in a slow breath, choosing her words carefully. “By that I mean, he told me you were coming. All I had to do was wait.”   
  
Interesting. Her voice was soft, her accent cultured. But every once in a while something else would slip out, betraying the truth.   
  
“You even hid from Malach!” Asclepius chirped, bouncing up to Mira and introducing herself by way of an embrace that was just shy of awkward. “Then again, he's still not used to actually using his talent so no wonder.”   
  
Mira inclined her head, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “I have learned how to hide,” she answered, and there was a wealth of implication in her words.   
  
“It is a good skill,” Tungsten said, ignoring the awkward creeping between them. “And you are willing to involve yourself in this conflict?”   
  
“Don't see where I have a choice otherwise.” Mira shrugged, the effect casual but something in her expression speaking of deeper issues. “And there's nothing here I'd miss.”   
  
Tungsten stopped himself from frowning, but only just. Asclepius, too, was concerned, her eyes meeting Tungsten's.   
  
“We should reunite with the others,” Orthrus said, resting a hand on Mira's shoulder. “I understand that time is limited.”   
  
“Yes,” Tungsten agreed, ready to change the subject for now. “We were supposed to meet at an Inn. I'm sure Asclepius can find Heimdal-san and Malach-san. We'll go from there.”   
  
It was nice, Tungsten thought, that this would go so easily. He hoped that the others were having much the same luck.   
  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoy this series, please check out and consider purchasing my recently published novella, The Finer Points of Thievery, which is a prequel to War of the Animum and stars Sleet and Frost. You can find it here on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Finer-Points-Thievery-Nicole-Wilkinson-ebook/dp/B015OPI2W8
> 
> Thank you for reading! See you next month. ^_^
> 
> And as always, constructive feedback is welcome. Anything that will help me hone my skills as a writer is greatly appreciated.


	47. The Road to Ruin - Chapter Eight

The Prancing Pony was the cheapest Inn available in Gorelik and that showed in the chintzy décor, stale odor, and cramped quarters. But if Raven was going to conserve every coin possible, he couldn't afford to spring for more luxury. Besides, they'd all spent days sleeping outside on the ground. Having a bed, however potentially infested, was a damn luxury.   
  
Anyone who complained could pay for themselves or go sleep in the alley.   
  
After all, Raven had spent hours tromping up and down the packed streets of Gorelik, looking for work. But this city was too much the tourist town for anyone to need a hand with the kind of work Raven could offer. He couldn't do customer service and that was all that was needed around here.   
  
In fact, half the reason he'd gotten rooms at The Prancing Pony was because the proprietor was in need of someone to haul dirty linens to the wash center and haul the clean ones back again. Raven had gotten half off the room for doing the dirty work.   
  
Elsewhere, nothing. No work. No jobs.   
  
And he was not going to resort to petty thievery.   
  
The need to acquire a sword, however, was undeniable. Raven did not like feeling exposed and undefended. His back felt too light without the blade and the hunting knives Sleet's mother had given him were of little use. Unless he felt like gutting a deer, he supposed.   
  
There was a knock on the door.   
  
Raven looked at the door, eyes narrowed. Either it was the proprietor with another menial job or Malach and Tungsten had returned. He pushed himself up from the chair, sweeping the curtain back over the window as he passed.   
  
The knock came again, more insistent, but before it could finish, Raven flung the door open, fixing the visitor with a glare.   
  
A woman smiled back at him, glasses framing her face as she met him eye to eye. There was a practiced ease to her grin and the way she flicked her curls back over her shoulder.   
  
“Not interested,” Raven said, and made to close the door. Though, 'too poor' would have probably been the more accurate response. He could stand for a little stress relief and his hands were becoming tedious.   
  
A palm hit the door, keeping him from closing it. “I'm not selling,” the woman said, near a purr, though she winked at him. “Not anymore at any rate.”   
  
Raven's eye narrowed.   
  
“She's with us, Raven-san,” came a voice over her shoulder and a giggle accompanied it, though from a different owner.   
  
He fought the urge to sigh. “I should have known,” Raven muttered, but he let go of the door and took several steps back, giving them leave to enter.   
  
Tungsten was here with Asclepius and that meant the strange woman was either their missing animus or the anima. Raven suspected the former. And look, Malach was here, too, with Heimdal at his heels.   
  
“Nice of you to join me,” Raven said as he took back his chair. It was the only one in the room but he'd already claimed it. He was the one who hauled the soiled linens after all and some of them were beyond foul.   
  
Melath leaned against the door as though preventing anyone from entering or leaving, Heimdal taking up post beside him.   
  
“It's a big city,” Tungsten replied, either failing to catch the annoyance in Raven's words or purposefully ignoring it. He flopped down onto one of the two beds, grimacing as he poked at the uncomfortable mattress. “We didn't even find Mira-san. She found us.”   
  
“Only at Orthrus' insistence.” Her grin never faltered, her eyes glittering with amusement that seemed directed at Raven alone. “Mama always said I'd never make nothing of myself. Guess now I can prove her wrong.” She planted a hand on her hip and added another wink.   
  
“Orthrus,” Raven repeated.   
  
And then there was that sensation, one he'd grown to both recognize and loathe. He'd hated the feeling of magic since he first encountered Balaam all those months ago. He had yet to grow used to it. It was like static all over his skin, like the breath punched out of his lungs. It reminded him of Balaam, an overwhelming feeling of helplessness, and the unfortunate truth that he was only human. Only mortal.   
  
Orthrus blurred into view with little fanfare, as though reluctant to do so. Asclepius liked to appear in a shower of rainbow-colored sparkles. Heimdal with a puff of earthen dust. Iblion, Raven remembered, had carried the scent of rain. Hephaestion popped into sight all at once and the universe seemed to stretch to accommodate him.   
  
Orthrus was shorter than Raven would have expected. Shorter than Mira and Heimdal and Malach and Raven, probably more on par with Tungsten. Unlike the others, he had the look of age on his face and experience in his eyes. His skin was tanned, easily as dark as Mira's own, his black hair glossy, long, and liberally streaked with grey. His eyes were red, like Asclepius', though on him they were more sinister in appearance.   
  
“I am Orthrus,” he said, tipping his head in a show of respect. “Am I to understand that you are considered the leader?”   
  
Raven scoffed. “No. That would be Alaris but she's on the other side of the continent.” And wouldn't she be surprised to meet Mira? At least the streetwalker will be of more use than Sleet. “I'm just here to make sure these ones don't get killed.”   
  
“We're not helpless you know,” Tungsten said with a frown.   
  
Raven ignored him. After all, Tungsten had lost half their coin and all he'd done was take twenty steps into Gorelik.   
  
“We'll meet Alaris in Lesoth,” Raven continued, rapping his fingers over the arm of the chair. “In fact, we all need to talk about just how we are going to do that.”   
  
Mira inclined her head, accepting his answer, and made herself comfortable on the bed. Though she sat with more elegance than he would have expected. Malach and Heimdal remained by the door.   
  
“Obviously, I cannot Earth-walk through the sea,” Heimdal said. “And none of we deities can teleport. That was a skill limited to first tier alone.”   
  
Because it would be too easy if the deities were useful.   
  
“We'll need coin for passage on a boat then,” Raven said, bracing his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepling his fingers. “I gather it won't be cheap?”   
  
“To cross the Kilieth?” Mira snorted, pushing her glasses back up her nose. “That's a week-long voyage if you've fair weather and the boat doesn't sink.”   
  
Tungsten nodded, pulling something from one of his pouches and scribbling on it. “Yes. On top of that, the transkilieth voyage docks on the western edge of Sanjara. Lesoth, if I'm not mistaken, is closer to the east.”   
  
“And three is my limit for Earth-walking,” Heimdal said, leaning against the wall as he crossed his arms. Malach, for his part, was silent.   
  
“Where is this Alaris?” Mira asked, raking a hand through her curls. She tapped one booted foot on the floor. “I assume not in Thessalia.”   
  
“No. She's in Darthen,” Tungsten answered. “She'll sail from there to Lesoth.”   
  
“And those are rougher seas,” Raven said, something he knew from rumor but not personal experience.   
  
Many a tale of woe had he overheard from sailors in taverns, expressing their dismay over one shipwreck or another. They spoke of strong currents, vicious weather, and rocky protrusions that would rake the hull of the boat when they appeared from a blanket of fog.   
  
Raven often wondered how much treasure rested at the bottom of the Arbeth Sea. Trader ships, pirate ships, and charter ships alike had fallen victim to the Arbeth. Wise-minded sailors took the longer journey, around the circulo de la muerte. Or, in Sanjaran, the Death Circle. It was a region of deep water, more oval than circular, with vicious storms and rumors of a deadly whirlpool. Many claimed that it existed. No one claimed to have seen it.   
  
“Then there is every possibility we will arrive either at the same time or close enough to it,” Tungsten commented. “Even if Heimdal has to Earth-walk us in stages.”   
  
Raven arched a brow. “Malach can't do it?”   
  
He shook his head, straightening against the door. “I cannot.”   
  
“Yet, anyway,” Heimdal said and unfolded his arms to rest a hand on Malach's shoulder. “Given enough time to strengthen the bond and he may prove capable.”   
  
“How much time?” Tungsten asked, leaning forward. His eyes lit up with curiosity, quill poised to scribble down some notation.   
  
Heimdal rolled his shoulders. “It depends on how hard he works. He must learn to control other abilities first.”   
  
“Um. If I might say something?” Mira said, raising one hand and drawing attention her way. “Isn't all of this pretty irrelevant since you're broke?”   
  
Asclepius flopped down on the bed, pillowing her hands behind her head. “Well, we have to head for the coast anyway. We can look for work on the way. Or, you know, opportunities.”   
  
Raven was certain he would not like whatever opportunity Asclepius had concocted. Neither, apparently, did Orthrus as he shot the bubbly deity a look that translated as directly parental.   
  
Huh. This was a new one.   
  
“I'm just saying,” Asclepius said, tossing the dark-haired deity a bright grin that did little to soften the chastising glare.   
  
“We will be doing nothing that in any way condones Sleet's lifestyle,” Raven declared, unable to entirely swallow down his disgust.   
  
“I have another option,” Malach said, finally offering something to the conversation, though given the way he was rubbing his forehead, the many personalities in the room was wearing on him. “There is a tournament here in Gorelik. Tomorrow. We could participate.”   
  
Tungsten straightened. “What kind of tournament?”   
  
Even Raven was intrigued. He remembered seeing a few signs posted here and there that had clusters of people around them, but hadn't stopped to investigate. Especially since it didn't matter as he was broke and disinclined to socialize.   
  
“Martial arts and weaponry,” Heimdal offered. “There's a fee, of course, but I think that between us, we are skilled enough to make the fee worth it.”   
  
Raven stroked his chin, considering. He was, by no means, a master swordsman. But he'd learned a few tricks over the last few years and more than a few nontraditional moves. Malach, he suspected, had been warrior-born and trained for his entire life. No doubt he could prove victorious.   
  
“And the prize?”   
  
“Enough to cover passage to Lesoth and more,” Heimdal said with a smile. “Taking third would make us break even with a little extra to spare.”   
  
They would need to acquire weapons. Raven doubted the tournament provided them. And though they shouldn't draw attention to themselves, the need for coin was immediate. Besides, Alaris was unlucky enough to have Sleet with her. He was all the distraction Balaam needed.   
  
“It's worth the risk,” Raven decided aloud and he sought Malach's gaze. “We'll need weapons. Are you up for another jaunt into Gorelik?”   
  
Malach inclined his head. “I am.”   
  
“Good.” Raven clapped his hands together and rose to his feet. “The room on the right is ours as well, I'll let you figure out the sleeping arrangements.” He snagged his travel cloak off the back of the chair, slinging it over his shoulders. “Malach, you're with me.”   
  
With any luck, this tournament would be all the answer they needed.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
As the first drops of rain fell, Malach felt his frown deepen. Bad enough that it was hot and humid, more so than yesterday, but the increasing downpour was not helping matters. Rather than cool the air, it made it stickier. His clothes clung to his back and shoulders and thighs, inhibiting his movement.   
  
The rain and the heat made everyone complain, under their breaths and in their heads. The general discontent was a buzz to his senses, a nagging itch at the back of his skull. There was excitement, too, eagerness to see the tournament bouts. The rising wave of exhilaration was just as painful as the discontent. Jarring, too.   
  
Malach rubbed his forehead, the ache in his temple just shy of unbearable. His sword was a welcome weight, though the hilt was rough and unfamiliar. He missed his own blade, his ancestral sword, that he'd had to leave behind. It was no longer his.   
  
_Steady, pup. You must concentrate._   
  
He felt oddly naked without Heimdal beside him. “ _I am concentrating_ ,” Malach replied, though there were cracks in his figurative walls. He continued to catch snatches of conversation and part of him couldn't tell if they were aloud or internal. “ _They have not called my name_.”   
  
Raven, however, had already been summoned. Malach had stood with the rest of the crowd, watching as the mercenary dispatched his first opponent with ease. He would dare say that Raven hadn't broken a sweat either, disarming and then defeating the man with economical motions. If all of their competition proved to be so unskilled, then the prize coin was already in their pockets.   
  
If only Asherah could make their path so easy.   
  
The others were somewhere else in the crowd. Tungsten had taken up residence in the stands, under one of the balconies and out of direct sunlight. The poor mage was sweating worse than anyone else, his ink running down his face and his pale skin a bright shade of pink. Mira hadn't said where she would be, but Malach knew she flitted about the crowd, perhaps charming coin or precious jewelry off unsuspecting men.   
  
She was welcome to it. The less Malach knew about it, the better.   
  
“Malach Nahlson.”   
  
He looked up at the sound of his name. A thickly-bearded man was scanning the crowd, tapping a rolled up parchment against his thigh.   
  
Malach lifted a hand. “Here.”   
  
The bearded man nodded. “You're up next. They tell you the rules?”   
  
Malach breathed steadily, patting the sword at his hand. “Yes. Fight to disable, death is an automatic disqualification, and I am to cease when my opponent yields.”   
  
The excitement of the crowd pulsed at the back of his head, pounding in his ears. He winced. Thankfully, the bearded man didn't notice.   
  
“At least someone paid attention then,” the bearded man muttered and pulled out his parchment, checking something off before passing Malach. “Ergyle Crahn?”   
  
A voice sounded from the back of the milling contestants, either Malach's opponent or part of the next batch. Business as usual. Malach palmed his sword again and stepped to the end of the tunnel, peering into the bright afternoon at the arena and the combatants present. He could feel the heat wafting inward. The dry, almost sandy ground would slow him down. The roar of the crowd would make concentrating difficult.   
  
The tournament was, at least, not unlike the trials for status and honor that the Kurai routinely conducted. Malach was used to fighting for a crowd. Performing would not put him ill at ease. He only worried about the effect of all the background noise in his head.   
  
_You will do fine_ , Heimdal said.   
  
The gong sounded, ending the match, one opponent standing victorious over another.   
  
Malach's stomach churned. Heimdal's reassurance did little to calm the disquiet. Malach strengthened his shields and prepared to step into the heat.   
  
His first bout was at hand.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Asclepius bounced excitedly next to him, unfazed by the heat and the crowds and the rising scent of hot, unwashed bodies. Tungsten, for his part, buried his face in his sleeve and lamented his decision to wear his robes. Though, in the long run, he would be grateful for their protection. He could already feel the burn on his cheeks and face.   
  
“Get him!” Asclepius shouted, joining the roar of the crowd, fist pumping in the air.   
  
“One would think you would be opposed to violence,” Tungsten said, huddling deeper in the hood of his robe. He was scholastically interested in the bouts, but little else. Physical exertions such as this had never been his forte and so held little interest to him.   
  
Asclepius nudged him with a shoulder. “Real violence, sure. But this is more like a sport. A challenge. There's no risk of death.”   
  
“Not intentionally anyway,” Tungsten said and fought back a wince as one of the men absorbed a blow to the shoulder and ducked in under another swing.   
  
So far, in the dozen matches, Tungsten hadn't seen anyone die. But that didn't mean the arena floor wasn't spattered with blood and bits of cloth. One unlucky contestant was probably going to lose his limb but if infection didn't get him, he would live. Another would be permanently scarred. The slightest misstep could mean death.   
  
Tungsten shivered. No. This was not his idea of a good time.   
  
The crowd's roar grew louder in approval. Tungsten peered out of his cocoon of sweaty robes and saw that the dark-skinned man stood triumphant over his opponent, one booted foot pinning the blond down by his neck as he lay face down in the dirt.   
  
Tungsten didn't know how many more bouts remained, but he hoped it was few. It was hot out here, he was thirsty, and the man behind him kneed his spine everytime he leapt to his feet to celebrate one good strike or another.   
  
Two more combatants walked to the center of the arena as the previous left, one limping, the other striding with confidence.   
  
“Look!” Asclepius all but squealed, squeezing his arm tightly. “Malach's up again!”   
  
This time, Tungsten made himself pay attention. He'd already seen Raven-san duel twice and come out victorious. This would be Malach-san's second round. He wondered, in the end, if it would come down to Malach-san and Raven-san battling each other.   
  
Malach-san's opponent was actually a woman, though given her attire and cropped hair, Tungsten had performed a double-take. Though there was no mistaking her ample bosom, barely restrained by the ties of her leather jerkin. It seemed impractical to Tungsten, but perhaps she intended glimpses of them to serve as a distraction to her opponents. That she wielded dual-blades, shorter than Malach's but more maneuverable, was impressive.   
  
They bowed to each other, a yard apart, and waited for the signal to begin. The crowd quieted to a dull roar, the atmosphere heavy with expectation. Malach-san was focused, stare even and face clear of expression. His opponent grinned, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet.   
  
“This is going to be good!” Asclepius giggled, jumping to her feet, her magic coiling about her in a nearly visible sparkle of excitement.   
  
Tungsten laughed and shook his head, settling in too watch. A wind stirred, making the clothing of the two fighters rustle. Seconds passed, but the moment the bell was rung, Malach-san rushed at his opponent, breaking his stillness.   
  
She whirled to avoid him, light on her feet, her laugh bright and clear. Malach-san was slower, but he still managed to defend against her quick movements. Tungsten watched them, wiping sweat from his brow and eyes, muscles tense. Their feet kicked up dust and the lady got in a lucky strike, a small line of blood appearing on Malach-san's cheek.   
  
He faltered.   
  
Tungsten sat forward, on the edge of his seat. Was something wrong?   
  
Another exchange of blows, faster this time. A jagged piece of cloth fluttered to the dirt, cut from the woman's long-tailed coat. She ignored it, pressing harder against Malach. He stumbled on nothing, fought to catch his balance.   
  
Beside Tungsten, Asclepius went still. “Something's wrong,” she murmured, confirming Tungsten's suspicion. Her magic took on a discordant buzz, jarring against his skin.   
  
“What is it?” Tungsten asked, rising to his feet. Someone shouted behind him and he quickly sat back down, but he sat forward, concerned.   
  
“I don't know.” Asclepius' lips thinned.   
  
Malach faltered again. The hilt of his opponent's sword struck him square in the abdomen. The low thump was audible even over the crowd. He reeled, sword drooping, and beside him, Asclepius went taut.   
  
“It's not Malach,” she said with sudden understanding, gaze jerking upright and staring away from Gorelik. Not just away, but off and to the north-west.   
  
North-west where they'd sent Alaris and the others after the last animus.   
  
“Oh, no,” Asclepius breathed, eyes rounding, her magic lashing out in a storm of worry and despair. “Erebus.”   
  
It was the last thing she said before she blinked out of existence. Tungsten stared where she had been, and the crowd around him grew quiet. Though the match below captured most attention, the spectators behind Tungsten could not have missed Asclepius' jaunty presence vanishing.   
  
Oh, dear.   
  
He hurried to his feet, keeping his head low as he sought to flee from the stands. He glanced at the arena below, dismayed to find that Malach-san was on his knees, a blade to his throat. Sweat coated his brow, his sword many feet away. Whatever had caused Asclepius to vanish must have been a distraction to him.   
  
It was up to Raven-san now. But first, Tungsten needed to find Mira-san and Orthrus. Surely they would have an answer.   
  
“ _Asclepius?_ ”   
  
Nothing. The spot inside his head he associated with her presence wasn't empty, as it always felt when she had to be elsewhere for a Conclave or something. But she wasn't responding. Her presence was muted, thick with frazzled energy, but she wasn't paying him any attention.   
  
Tungsten nearly tripped on the folds of his robe as he hurried down the steps, forcing himself to gather them up. No one followed him out of the crowd, demanding to know about his companion, so that was a relief. His concern for Asclepius, and now Alaris-san and the others, continued to grow.   
  
He stepped off the steps and turned to go under the tunnel that connected the arena to street-level. He paused in the shadows, relieved at the lack of sunlight.   
  
The crowd roared it's approval for Malach-san's defeat and his opponent's victory. The next combatants entered the arena and Tungsten glanced over his shoulder, finding that only Raven-san was stepping back into place. Ah. They were down to the final seed then. Raven-san would face Malach-san's opponent.   
  
What a relief. At least they would receive the coin for third place. Malach-san should not be so disappointed. This would be worth it after all.   
  
Someone grabbed his arm. Tungsten startled with a shout, whirling. Mira-san held up her hands, staring back at him.   
  
“Easy,” she said with a curve of her lips. “Didn't mean to scare you.”   
  
“I wasn't scared,” he muttered, though his heart was pounding in his chest.   
  
“If you say so.” She tucked her hands into the folds of her skirt, eyes glittering with amusement. “Orthrus is gone. Just took off. He muttered something about Balaam and vanished. I take it your sparkly companion did, too?”   
  
Tungsten nodded. “Only with fewer details.” He frowned.   
  
Balaam must have attacked. But Asclepius was worried more about Erebus who had been bonded to Sleet. Tungsten sincerely doubted Balaam or Frost would kill Sleet, but that left the unthinkable: either Sleet had been taken or he'd voluntarily gone with Frost. But what did that mean for the other animus? Were Alaris-san and Ashur and Beryl-san okay?   
  
“We should find Malach, see if Heimdal left as well,” Mira-san said, the roar of the crowd nearly drowning out her words.   
  
“The combatants gathered at the other side of the arena,” Tungsten said, preparing himself for stepping back into the harsh sunlight. “We should find him there. No doubt being tended to the medics.”   
  
“That was a hard hit he took,” Mira-san agreed and she took the lead, easing back into the arena and leaving Tungsten to follow.   
  
They kept to the bottom, heads down, occasionally watching the battle between Raven-san and the duel-wielding woman. It was fierce, neither giving away, the sharp rapport of metal against metal an increasing cadence. If Raven-san won or lost, it would not matter. They would get what they needed regardless.   
  
The raw chaos at the combatant holding area was a striking difference compared to the orderly atmosphere it had been at the beginning, Tungsten noticed. His eyes rounded as people rushed back and forth, shouting commands. The scent of blood was heavy, thick in the air and staining the ground. Men and women alike groaned in pain. The most ambulatory of the combatants had either already taken their leave or leaned against the walls, clutching their minor injuries.   
  
Malach-san was one such patient, holding a piece of cloth to his forehead while Heimdal crouched next to him, attending to the slice on his left leg. Both were more irksome than debilitating, though the look on Malach-san's face suggested frustration and anger.   
  
“Are you all right?” Tungsten asked, twitching. He knew very little about medicine.   
  
“I'll live,” Malach-san replied, his face very pale and tight around his lips and eyes.   
  
“Third place isn't bad,” Mira-san said, her eyes knowing as she crossed her arms over her chest. “It's enough to recoup the cost and get us horses for the ride to Arkady.”   
  
“We are more concerned by the events in Darthen,” Heimdal said, his expression grim. “I do not know what happened save that I felt the sharp dip in magical energy.”   
  
Mira-san frowned. “Meaning?”   
  
“Balaam killed another deity,” Tungsten supplied, his insides twisting. He thought of Alaris-san and the unknown animus, logically the only two who could have suffered a loss. Unless Balaam had aimed for Iblion.   
  
“There is more. Worse.” Heimdal finished tying off the bandages around Malach-san's legs and pushed himself to his feet, dusting off his knees. “Erebus has vanished from all ability to sense him.”   
  
Tungsten's mouth dropped. “He's dead?”   
  
The roar of the crowd, the stamping of excited feet, nearly drowned out Heimdal's answer. The last bout must have been decided.   
  
“No. He's gone.”   
  
“There's a difference?” Mira-san asked.   
  
The Earth deity nodded, encouraging Malach to remove the cloth from his face so he could inspect the wound. “Somehow, Balaam has found a way to shield our divine presence from even Hephaestion.”   
  
“Then Frost took Sleet-san,” Tungsten realized, hating that he'd been right. They'd lost not only another animus, but Sleet-san and Erebus as well.   
  
The low sound of the gong echoed in the air, signaling the end of the tournament. The cheering grew in volume, rattling in Tungsten's ears. He winced, feeling immediately sympathetic for Malach-san. Surely, the mind-walker had it worse.   
  
Heimdal made a noncommittal noise. “Perhaps.” He shifted his attention to his anima. “Malach, this won't need stitching.”   
  
“Thank Asherah for that.”   
  
“Raven did not win,” Mira-san said as she walked up to them and Tungsten couldn't remember when she had wandered away. He hadn't seen her go.   
  
Tungsten winced. “They'll be no living with him.” Though second place would still net them a hefty profit.   
  
Mira-san smirked. “He'll have to learn to deal with disappointment.”   
  
Tungsten wished it were that simple. But the fact remained, they faced a losing battle with little hope in sight. They had little information and were running out of time. He was worried, Asclepius remained a distant presence, and no answers were to be found.   
  
Worse of all, Tungsten could not shake the feeling that Balaam was _winning_.   
  


***

(to be continued in "Quisling")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have the last chapter of The Road to Ruin. Maybe. I'm still waffling on whether I might add one more chapter. I'm also kinda-sorta stuck on Quisling. So next month will either have the first chapter of Quisling or a oneshot set in the WOTA universe. November is busy cause of NaNo but December is all about WOTA so I plan on putting my nose to the grinder and pounding out Quisling plus the follow up series, A Cause for Madness. 
> 
> As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated. ^_^


	48. Quisling Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quisling: Series Part Eight  
> Summary: Questions upon questions. The company travels to Lesoth in a desperate bid to learn the truth behind Balaam's betrayal, and how they must stop him. Meanwhile, Sleet learns some disturbing truths about Frost's plans for the world, and for Sleet himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is brought to you by the very kind reader who tracked me down to my dreamwidth just to tell me how much they loved this story and that they hoped I continued it. It was inspiration enough for me to dig out my chapter and polish it. Thank you so much.

Sleet woke with a sneeze and groaned to himself. He felt exhausted from head to toe, and he was surrounded by a comfortable warmth, which made him all the more uninterested in opening his eyes and greeting the day. He rolled over, pulled a pillow over his head, and stretched out a limb to find a cool spot in the bed.   
  
He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this comfortable.   
  
Wait.   
  
Sleet stilled. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd been this comfortable because it had been months since he'd seen luxury. Since Tawnry and the demon attack and Erebus and all that crap Alaris dragged him into.   
  
Sleet bolted upright, pillow sliding down beside him with a plop. He squinted into a bright morning, half-convinced he was still dreaming.   
  
The bed beneath him was plush and inviting, with silk sheets and a hand-woven quilt. It was big enough for four, set upon a massive frame, and was positioned right across from a four pane window. Curtains were drawn back to reveal a latticed frame and beyond it, bright morning. The rest of the room was easily the size of the entire shanty he'd called home in Tawnry.   
  
Tapestries hung on the walls and rugs decorated the stone floor. There was a dressing table with a bowl upon it, steaming lightly, still hot. Clothes were hanging out neatly on the doors of a wardrobe. There was a bowl of fruit on the nightstand.   
  
The other side of the bed was rumpled as though Sleet had been sharing it.   
  
He rubbed his eyes. Surely he was still dreaming. He could not have woken in a palace. What would he be doing in a castle?   
  
_'Erebus?'_   
  
Nothing. Even more unsettling.   
  
Sleet threw back the covers and frowned. He was naked. Someone had undressed him in his sleep. But, and he checked, he'd not fucked anyone. Unless they'd cleaned him, too. But his rim didn't feel swollen and used. He couldn’t taste come on his tongue.   
  
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet landing on a plush rug. He swept a hand over his hair and remembered, then, the chilling bite of ice, of fear, and a choice made. The icy grasp of darkness when they teleported away and then, nothing.   
  
Sleet leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, and covered his mouth. Balaam or Frost or whatever he was calling himself, he'd brought Sleet here. They'd, apparently, shared a bed.   
  
Why couldn't he hear Erebus?  
  
Sleet sighed and pushed himself off the bed. He didn't ache, at least. Further evidence that Frost hadn't fucked him. Was that relief? He didn't know.   
  
He made for the wash basin, splashing water on his face in hopes to get some clarity. In the mirror, he looked like hell. Still tired, still underfed, his body a web of scars he hadn't had before Tawnry and all this craziness began. He was nude, but Frost had left him the necklace, one Sleet still couldn't manage to get rid of.   
  
Why? Some stupid hope that he could save Frost? That it meant something.   
  
Sleet raked a hand through his hair and examined the clothes left on the wardrobe. Of course they were his size. Why wouldn't they be? He pulled on the tunic and trousers and wondered where the rest of his belongings were: his pouches, his daggers, his boots. Probably confiscated.   
  
Sleet snatched an orange from the bowl – and where had Balaam gotten this expensive piece of fruit? He peeled off the rind and edged up to the window, peering through the wood lattice. He saw... nothing. They were surrounded by rock and desert, by all accounts. The horizon stretched in all directions, a blue sky meeting ruddy rock.   
  
Where was he? A place Sleet had not been for sure. Maybe not even on Corynth anymore. The only desert Sleet knew of was past Nipon, the Arida. But those sands were rumored to be golden and hilly, not flat and sharp-ridged like these. There was no vegetation, no animal-life, not even a bird in the sky. It was unsettling.   
  
Sleet crossed the length of the room toward a set of massive double doors, ornate patterns engraved in the frame around it. Pointless really.   
  
He tested the latch and found it unlocked. Sleet's eyebrow popped up. He was being given free rein? Well, wasn't that generous. He would have preferred boots though if he was going to be doing some exploring.   
  
Sleet pulled the heavy door open and peered through the gap. There was a long hallway lit by flickering torches in glass sconces. It was deserted, with other doors visible to the left and right, and a staircase at the far end. It was all decorated in the same shades of cream and ocher that was prevalent in the bedroom behind him.   
  
Sleet inched into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him. Thick rugs ran down the middle of the corridor and cushioned his feet. It was chillier here, but the still silence was more unnerving. Did Frost stay in this gigantic place all by himself?  
  
There were six other doors, one on the far side that dead-ended the hallway, two sharing a wall with the bedroom behind, and three on the opposite wall.   
  
If in a maze, keep the wall on your right side no matter what. Eventually, you'll find your way out.   
  
Sleet's mother had taught him that from countless fantasy books. It seemed as good advice as any. Sleet slipped out of the bedroom and crept to the first door on his right. It was plain, simple, and he opened it to reveal... a closet. Well, it was an average-sized room but it was stocked to the nines with linen, boxes, and other things.   
  
Sleet poked around them, crowed when he found a pair of boots close enough in size, and then let himself back out. Linen was of little use and held no interest. The boxes were various supplies like soaps and waxes and food stuffs, none of it ready to eat. What he needed was a kitchen. The orange had been delicious, but he needed something more satisfying.   
  
His belly rumbled.   
  
The double doors at the far end were locked. And here Sleet was without his lock-picking tools. He jiggled the handle, peered at it, and tried to remember if there was something of use in the storage room. He tried peering through the keyhole, but it was dark, as though someone had drawn the shades and doused the lanterns.   
  
Moving on.   
  
The next door was another bedroom. This one had the faint scent of disuse to it, dusty and abandoned. The covers were rumpled, but there was an odor in the air that suggested of unpleasant things. Sleet shivered and let himself back out.   
  
Sleet found a bathing room next, tub and sink and commode included. His eyes rounded at the sight and he had to resist the urge to fill the tub and soak himself for hours. This was an unheard of luxury. How did the heated water even get up here?   
  
Two more doors revealed two more bedrooms. One was smaller, barely furnished and looked as if it had never been used. The other looked to be a combination bedroom and library, with books on every wall from floor to ceiling, and a small settee for a bed. The window looked out on the opposite side of the manor or palace or whatever and even here, Sleet could only see the same rocky, uninhabitable ground in all directions.   
  
Those might have been mountains in the distance but it was difficult to tell. The wood lattice over the windows obscured his vision.   
  
All that remained was the staircase. It spiraled both up and down, but there was a colder breeze wafting up from downstairs and Sleet opted to climb upward. Maybe he could get a better idea of where he was if he could see further.   
  
The stairs were constructed of the same fitted stone as the rest of the palace. It was a grayish-pink color and smooth to the touch. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble, Sleet thought. The stairs also spiraled upward and railing embedded in the wall provided a handhold to keep his balance. At the top there was a trap door and Sleet had to brace it against his shoulder to push the heavy, iron-banded wood upright. Hinges creaked and a waft of dry heat struck Sleet in the face.   
  
Another shove and the door slammed open, leaving Sleet room to pull himself out. His shoulder ached because of course, he'd used his oft-injured one, and he scowled as he pushed to his feet. He rubbed at the joint and turned in a slow circle, only to freeze.   
  
He was on the roof, the edges surrounded by battlements, almost like a castle. For miles around, he could see nothing but the rocky ridges, but there in the distance were the shadows of mountains. There were tall, angular things. And it was so hot that heat shimmered over the landscape. Maybe there were no mountains after all. Maybe it was an illusion.   
  
But the view wasn't what made him stiffen.   
  
Frost was here, too.   
  
He turned as Sleet spotted him and leaned against the rail. The balustrades were as tall as his mid-section, preventing him from falling out. Frost smirked at him as the wind tousled his dark hair in all directions.   
  
“You finally woke up,” he said, not a trace of Balaam in his voice.   
  
Sleet wasn't going to let his guard down just yet.   
  
He carefully approached his lover, noticing to some dismay that he could see over the rails, but only just. He'd be better off crouching and peering through the balustrades.   
  
“How long was I out?” Sleet asked. He chose to lean against the rail, just outside of arm's reach for Frost.   
  
Best to play this normal for now. He didn't know why Frost wanted him or why it was so important he be here. And right now, Sleet didn't want to get thrown over the edge. A quick glance informed him they were three stories up. There was hard-packed dirt and rocks below. Nothing for a soft landing.   
  
He'd go splat.   
  
“Two days.” Frost's gaze lazily slid from Sleet's head to his feet and back again. “You must have been exhausted.”   
  
Sleet wrapped his arms around his chest and made a non-committal noise. His gaze wandered away, to the unending vista of rock and desert. “Where are we?”   
  
“Courland. And what's left of the Aestera.”   
  
“Aestera.”   
  
From the corner of his eyes, Sleet saw Frost move closer. He braced himself, but all Frost did was cup his face and brush a thumb over his cheek.   
  
“This was once a city,” Frost explained as Sleet shifted back to look at him. There was something weird in his eyes, not quite Balaam, but not quite Frost either. “And this was fertile land. It's only mistake was that it was Asherah's favorite place to rest.”   
  
Sleet's brow crinkled. “Who's Asherah?”   
  
Sadness flicked through Frost's gaze. His thumb wandered to Sleet's lip, tracing the bottom one over and over.   
  
“That you've forgotten here is only proof of the punishment we were given.” A hardness entered Frost's tone, making him sound distinctly un-Frost-like. “She was Lord Aesir's equal. Only she chose to sleep in the mortal realm, with her favored children. Her power was necessary. And her guardians were too late.”   
  
Sleet fought back a shiver and the urge to jerk free of Balaam's – because he had to be Balaam now – touch. “She was killed by you, I take it?”  
  
“Needs must.” The sharp-toothed grin was very much not Frost. Especially when it melted to a scowl. “My siblings got their revenge, thanks to Kronos. And it's his fault that Aestera is a wasteland.”   
  
Wasteland.  
  
Sleet considered it, and then his eyes rounded. “You mean the Wastelands? The one everyone says to stay away from because no one ever comes back because it's home to ghosts and monsters?”  
  
“The very same.” Balaam's hand slid down, cupping Sleet's neck. The grip wasn't enough to be worrisome, but it made Sleet's heart beat faster anyway.   
  
He would have trusted Frost. He didn't trust Balaam at all. He felt like running from their amalgam.   
  
“Why are we here?” Sleet asked.   
  
“Because the others can't find us here.” Balaam stepped even closer, bringing their bodies together, his head nuzzling against Sleet's.   
  
“I see.” Sleet swallowed thickly. “It's hot up here,” he said, hoping that Frost or Balaam or whatever would take the hint.   
  
Balaam chuckled. His free hand wrapped around Sleet's waist and groped at his ass. “It could be hotter.” He squeezed.   
  
Ugh. Sleet winced. “Why bother when there's a comfortable bed a floor below us?” He offered, more than aware of the fact his hands remained pinned at his sides. He couldn't bring himself to embrace Balaam in return.   
  
His body responded to Frost's proximity. Despite behaving like Balaam, he still smelled like Frost, like sandalwood and sweat and amber. His body felt the same, tall and muscled and part of Sleet wanted to push against him, to take him up on his offer.   
  
Another part of him remembered that this wasn't only Frost, that here lately he was mostly Balaam and that filled Sleet with unease.   
  
“You have a point.” Balaam's grip tightened slightly as he tilted Sleet's head back, thumb pressed to the hollow right under the curve of his jaw. “You and your pretty eyes. I should be allowed to enjoy the spoils of my victory,” he purred right before his lips descended over Sleet's.   
  
His groan was muffled by Balaam's mouth, by the sheer ferocity of the kiss, all teeth and tongue, with none of the gentleness Frost had once given. Sleet was barely a participant in the kiss, Balaam's tongue sweeping into his mouth to claim every inch, and then sucking on his tongue. He left stinging nips on Sleet's bottom lip even as he pushed Sleet closer with his other arm, rocking their bodies together. He felt Balaam's erection press against his lower abdomen.   
  
There was no option to pull away or resist. Balaam had him fully trapped and Sleet did the only thing he could do, he went fully passive. He let Balaam manipulate him as he wished. He moaned into the kiss, easy enough when part of him was responding, when his cock slowly filled in his trousers and pressed against Balaam's hip.   
  
Finally, Balaam pulled away, licking his lips as though savoring some treat. “You are a distraction,” he said. His grip loosened on Sleet's throat. “Let's go back downstairs.”   
  
“Great,” Sleet said. “And maybe you can explain to me what I'm really doing here. Because I'm finding it hard to believe you only wanted a convenient bed mate.”   
  
Balaam tilted his head at Sleet and then smirked. He released Sleet, though not without a lingering grope. “You're right. Though the latter is a charming bonus. And if that's what it takes to satisfy my host, so be it.”   
  
Sleet's bottom lip felt raw. He poked at it with his bottom lip and tasted blood. Bastard. “I guess I'm lucky.”   
  
“You are.” Balaam moved past him, heading for the hatch. “You're the only animus I'm not allowed to kill.”   
  
Sleet trailed after him. “You didn't kill Adair.”   
  
“I thought he might be useful. And he was.” Balaam paused on the ladder, quirking his head again. “You're here, aren't you?”   
  
Sleet set his jaw in a firm line. He wasn't sure how to respond to that. Luckily, Balaam didn't demand one. He chuckled and descended, leaving room for Sleet to follow him back into the cool corridor. Sleet relished the chill now. He didn't know how Balaam was keeping it comfortable, but he wasn't going to complain.   
  
Back in the corridor, Balaam beckoned Sleet to follow and shoulders set, Sleet obeyed.   
  
“Why am I here?” he asked, again.   
  
“Because I need you to do something for me and my other assures me you'll cooperate.”   
  
Even Balaam's stride was different from Frost's. Where his lover's footsteps could barely be heard, Balaam scuffed the floor. He took long, loping strides compared to Frost's minimal pace. It was unsettling. Sleet tried not to watch.   
  
“What if I don't?” Sleet asked if only because Frost would expect him to be contrary.   
  
Balaam paused in front of the locked double doors Sleet had found earlier. “I won't kill you, if that's what you're worried about. My other won't allow me to.” He smiled, and it was full of teeth. “But there are ways to make your life unpleasant without the mercy of death.”   
  
A wave of his hand, a spark of magic, and the door opened. Balaam stepped inside.   
  
Sleet's insides dripped with ice. What in Aesir's name had he gotten himself into? He followed Balaam. What other choice did he have?  
  
He stepped over the door's threshold and shivered. What felt like a wave of magic had descended over his body. It tingled across his skin and made the hair on the back of his neck rise?   
  
_'Erebus?'_  
  
Still nothing.   
  
Sleet swallowed thickly and gathered himself. The room was bright, every curtain drawn back from the window to maximize the natural light. The stone floor was polished but bare and there was very little of furniture to speak of. The walls were bare as well and only a few lights hung from the ceiling, their candles extinguished.   
  
Center stage was a statue of a man, one who was winged with fierce features. He wore a warrior's kilt and his taloned feet were reminiscent of the dragons from the fairy tales Sleet had heard as a challenge. His hands were clawed as well and his sharp canines were bared in a snarl. He had long hair and pointed ears and even his wingtips were clawed.   
  
Sleet did not know what material the statue was sculpted from. Certainly not clay or wood.   
  
He tilted his head and moved closer. The feeling of magic grew stronger as he did so. One of the statue's hands clutched a dual-bladed polearm.  
  
Was it stone?   
  
Sleet touched the weapon, the material as cold as stone but smooth as silk. It had a bit of give to it and was almost translucent.   
  
“This is me.”   
  
He startled and snatched his hand back. Sleet whirled to face Balaam. He'd forgotten entirely why he'd stepped into this room.   
  
“You?” he asked.   
  
Balaam's hands were folded behind his back. He approached and Sleet unconsciously backed away, until his hips bumped the edge of the podium where the statue stood. It didn't wobble, as heavy and sturdy as stone.   
  
“My body,” Balaam clarified. His gaze lifted, looking past Sleet to the statue. There was wistfulness in his look, but also anger. “It is the last thing I need to be whole.”   
  
“Looks to me like you already have it,” Sleet said.   
  
Balaam arched a brow at him. “This is in my possession, but I am barred from using it.”   
  
He stepped closer, but past Sleet. One hand lifted, touching the statue's knee. But before he could press a finger to it, something shimmered, opalescent. There was a crackle of energy, static perhaps, and Balaam hissed, drawing his hand back.   
  
“As you can see, it's guarded. I can't free my body, just as I couldn't free my spirit.” Balaam tilted his head toward Sleet. His brown eyes gleamed unsettlingly. “I have you to thank for the latter.”   
  
Sleet crossed his arms, inching away. “The black marble at Dye's.”   
  
“Precisely.”   
  
Sleet looked up at the statue again, the fierce expression. It... didn't really fit with what he imagined Balaam would look like. For one thing, the statue was handsome. And he'd always imagined Balaam to be this ugly, twisted creature, as black outside as he was inside.   
  
“Adair refused?”  
  
“No, Adair was incapable.”   
  
A soft, long sigh escaped Balaam. “I needed his anima. I needed Iblion. But I couldn't guess that Iblion would refuse to return to Elysium. He would have been drawn to Adair if he did so.” Frustration ate into Balaam's expression, so very Frost-like for a moment that it gave Sleet vertigo.   
  
It melted away, however, into a winning smile. “That's where you come in, pet.” He circled around Sleet, a sense of magic pushing at Sleet as he did so. It felt as though it were enclosing him within a box. “Your bond is stable. Your anima is with you.”   
  
“I can't hear him.”   
  
“You will,” Balaam reassured. “When it's convenient. But he can hear you, and he can hear me and my offer, and that's what matters.”   
  
Sleet shivered. “Your offer?”   
  
Warmth pressed against his back. An arm encircled his abdomen, pulling him back into Balaam's embrace. He felt warm exhalations against the side of his neck. Lips brushed against his ear.   
  
“You will make up for your betrayal, my son,” Balaam whispered against Sleet's ear. “You owe me this freedom.”   
  
Sleet cringed and his hands pulled into fists. “What are you talking about?”   
  
“That particular message was not for you.”   
  
Balaam's palm flattened on Sleet's belly. His fingers flexed, the tips poking against Sleet in odd intervals before his hand slid down. It fiddled at the tie of Sleet's trousers.   
  
Disquiet coiled in Sleet's belly. “For Erebus?”   
  
He dimly remembered Tungsten mentioning that the deities were related, that they had something approximating families. He never would have guessed, however, that his own anima was Balaam's son. Erebus was so fiercely vocal about stopping Balaam. Apparently, there were things stronger than blood in the immortal world.   
  
“Yes,” Balaam hissed and his teeth grazed Sleet's ear. “You'll hear him soon enough. When I allow you contact. But I must have your agreement before I can obtain his. He's stubborn. Always has been.”   
  
Sleet made a noncommittal noise, and then gasped when Balaam palmed his groin and squeezed. His cock woke up immediately, surging toward Balaam's delicate massaging.   
  
Sleet unfolded his arms and grabbed Balaam by the wrists, squeezing. He wasn't sure if he wanted to stop the deity in his lover's body, or encourage him.   
  
“I came here, didn't I?” Sleet asked. A shiver danced down his spine as heat blossomed in his groin. His heart thudded in his chest. “You already have my agreement.”   
  
“So you say.”   
  
Balaam's mouth traveled lower, the wet heat of it nibbling on the side of Sleet's neck. Sleet bit his bottom lip, squeezing his eyes shut.   
  
How long had Balaam watched his and Frost's interaction? Why had he paid attention to know Sleet's erogenous zones and kinks?   
  
“You need him to free you?” Sleet gasped out. “That's it? And after, I guess you think he'll join you?”   
  
Balaam chuckled, though it was muffled against Sleet's skin. “I'm under no illusions. My son has made his allegiance quite clear.”  
  
The dread returned. Surely Balaam wouldn't kill his own son?  
  
“And that, pet, is when you have a choice to make.” Balaam rocked against his back, the rigid line of his cock tangible. “Whose side do you really want to be on? My other seems to think you're one of us, but I'm not sure. I'm not sure at all.”   
  
His teeth clamped down on Sleet's shoulder, pinning a chunk of Sleet's flesh between the dull edges. It was a blunt pain and Sleet hissed, sucking in a breath. His fingers tightened on Balaam's arms.   
  
The bite eased, gentling as Balaam flicked his tongue against it. Something in his hold softened as well.   
  
“You never had any aspirations,” Balaam said but no, his tone was different. Warmer.   
  
His grip on Sleet's cock gentled, pushing and stroking. His other hand slid up Sleet's abdomen, under his tunic, pressing over his chest where his heart thundered beneath.   
  
“You were content to do nothing, be nothing.” Lips pressed tiny kisses to the curve of his jaw and Sleet was sure of it now. Frost had returned to the surface. “Make the choice to be more now.”   
  
Frost's lips wandered closer and Sleet turned his head, capturing them. Frost's tongue slid across his lips and into his mouth, claiming without the damaging roughness Balaam had employed. Sleet moaned. This was definitely Frost.   
  
He sagged back against his lover, cock pulsing into Frost's grip. His head spun dizzily. How could they flip back and forth like that?   
  
Sleet broke off the kiss. “You want me to be a villain,” he said, catching Frost's gaze from the corner of his eyes. All at once, he remembered all of the stories his mother used to tell him. “That never ends well, you know.”   
  
Frost grinned with the roguish charm that had attracted Sleet in the first place. “Then we'll change the story.”   
  
Was that how Balaam convinced Frost? Did he tell Frost that he could have the world and everything in it? And what was more valuable than that?   
  
Despite being a thief, Frost had never struck Sleet has being particularly greedy. He'd been a picky thief, one who only took the items that interested him. Sometimes, they had no value on the resale market. Frost would take items that couldn't be bought.   
  
Sleet supposed that rulership of Lieve counted in that.   
  
And as for Sleet? He'd been content to survive, to play his days away and not think about the distant future. That's what happened when you had no aspirations or goals. You just drifted, and apparently wandered into the tide of someone like Frost.   
  
“A lot of people are going to die,” Sleet said. The disquiet in his belly just wouldn't leave him. He felt simultaneously cold and hot.   
  
“Perhaps. That's the price you pay to get what I want. Collateral damage.”   
  
And there he was, back again, Balaam in all his madness. That explained the ice in his belly and the wobble in his knees.   
  
Sleet closed his eyes, swallowing over a lump in his throat. “What do you want me to do?”   
  
“So glad you asked.” Balaam's purr rolled over him, dark shadows in Frost's eyes all the warning that Sleet had. Would it get to a point he couldn't tell them apart? “I need Erebus to set me free. Convince him.”  
  
“I can't make him do anything.”   
  
Balaam curved his fingers around Sleet's cock and gave it a long stroke, producing a liberal drop of pre-come. Sleet had already started to throb with need. “You will find a way. Every one has a weakness. And you know his.”   
  
_Asclepius_.   
  
Sleet shuddered and disguised it by pushing back against Balaam, grinding his ass against the hard cock nestled against it. “I'll do my best.”   
  
“I know you won't disappoint us,” Frost said and he nipped at Sleet's ear, tongue coiling wetly around it again. “Mmm, but I've missed you.”   
  
Sleet rocked backward and peeled his eyes open. All he could see was that damned statue. “Should I be flattered?”   
  
Frost's cock nudged at his ass, pushing at the seam of his trousers. “If you want,” he growled. “I want you, Sleet.”   
  
He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, withholding a whimper. This, at least, was the easier decision to make.   
  


****


End file.
